Spark Me Up
by CharWright5
Summary: After the sudden loss of their dad, brothers Derek and Scott McHale are forced to moved to California, where Derek shuts down completely. That is, until his brother's annoying best friend keeps showing up everywhere with his scent, forcing the elder werewolf to open up and deal with everything he's hidden.
1. Accident

_**A/N:**_This_ is an AU (clearly) with Scott and Derek as actual bros, both of them in high school, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, full wolf shifting, and whatever other random trope thing I love that I could throw in. Pretty sure Scott's dad in the show is named Rafael, but since I hate Agent McCall with the unrelenting passion of an Oni after a dark spirit, I've given him and Derek a dad with a different name because artistic license. Also I can't really speak Spanish so forgive any inaccuracies in any terms within this fic in respect to the random words/phrases their abuela uses. Most of my knowledge of that language comes from watching "Dora the Explorer" while babysitting and Google Translate. All other characters within are property of "Teen Wolf" (which is a gift), Jeff Davis (who is a painful yet wonderful gift), and noMTV (which is kind of a crappy gift, lesbireal). I just stole them and made them do other stuffs. Title from "Touch" by Daughter._ _Fic rated for language, explicit and underage sex, A/B/O Dynamics, heat cycles, knotting, teenage angst, minor character death, bullying, douchebaggery, slight discrimination, and werewolfness._

* * *

The rhythmic dribbling of the basketball filled the living room, like a third heartbeat in the still house.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound was soothing, calming even, and Derek didn't bother hiding the small smile that it brought to his face. A smile that was also partially created due to his younger brother's obvious annoyance at the elder bouncing the ball inside their Queens house, right next to him on the couch.

Derek continued bouncing the ball as he heard Scott huff, hands slamming down on the keyboard of his laptop as it sat on his legs. The elder McHale didn't say a word, didn't acknowledge him in any way, just simply smirked and kept dribbling.

"Seriously?!" Scott finally snapped, head turning towards his older brother, dark eyes narrowed in a glare, thin lips pressed in a hard line.

The elder kept his smirk up, his own head twisting to look at the younger, still dribbling the basketball. "What?" he feigned ignorance, his tone light as he joked around. "Am I distracting you from your World of Geek-craft game?"

Scott's glare intensified, eyes flashing gold for a brief moment, a muscle in his uneven jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. "_War_craft," he corrected, the word growled more than spoken.

The ball bounced back up, Derek catching it and placing it in his lap, holding his hands up in innocence. Sure, he picked on his brother, was kind of his job being the elder one, and Scott just made it so damn easy with his dorky passions and his complete lack of social skills. But Derek knew when to back off, when to let shit go before it went too far and they wolfed out on each other. It hadn't happened since they were kids, and with the elder brother having reached full werewolf maturity a few months ago—not to mention the fact that he was an Alpha—he was extra careful to not push it too much and end up hurting the younger one. The guy might've been an Alpha like his brother, but he was only sixteen, hadn't gained his full powers yet—and wouldn't for another two years—and was no match for Derek in strength or skill.

Not that Derek thought Scott would be able to take him even when he _did_ reach full maturity, but still. There was a distinct lack of bloodshed between the two brothers and he was gonna keep it that way, if for no other reason than for their mom. She saw enough of the red stuff at her job as a nurse.

Leaning back on the couch, Derek got comfy, legs splayed as he practiced spinning the basketball on the tip of a finger. "Yeah, yeah," he placated, still thinking his brother's hobby of online role-playing games was by far the nerdiest fucking thing he could think of. And considering his own secret love of classic novels, that was really saying something.

Scott continued to glare for a long moment before a beep from his laptop drew his attention back to the device. The ball fell off Derek's finger and onto his lap, allowing him the chance to lean over and try to peek at the screen, only to have Scott twist it away.

"Back off, Derek," he ordered, voice more annoyed than anything.

"Why? Afraid I'll see your lame li'l fairy character?" Derek teased, smirk still on his face, dimples formed on the smooth skin.

"Goblin," Scott corrected again, this time through gritted teeth. Not that he needed to set the elder werewolf straight. Derek knew exactly what kind of mythological being it was. He just didn't give a fuck and preferred to call it a fairy because he knew it bugged his little brother.

This time clearly wasn't any different.

"And I'm not playing _Warcraft_ right now," the leaner male added, still sounding annoyed that his brother was in his business. "I'm chatting with Stiles."

Derek rolled his eyes, spinning the basketball on his finger again. "Stiles" was Scott's supposed best friend, a guy he met on WoW that lived in California. Over the past couple years, the two of them had developed a friendship of sorts, chatting online and on the phone constantly, to the point where everyone else in the house knew all about what was going on with Stiles and his sheriff dad.

It was annoying as fuck.

Wouldn't be so bad if Scott had _actual_ friends, people that he saw in real life and interacted with face to face. But the little nerd was as awkward as one could get, always keeping to himself, never hanging out with anyone. Sure, he talked to people on their lacrosse team, got invited to their parties and post-game dinners at the local pizza joint, but he never joined in. And even when he did, he spent the entire time attached to Derek's hip, not talking to anyone. Derek had tried to get convos going between his brother and their teammates, but without fail Scott would start talking Warcraft this and internet that and soon the elder McHale was pulling the younger away before he added to his rapidly expanding reputation as a total dork.

And it wasn't that Derek thought anything was wrong with his brother. The two of them were thick as thieves, partners in crime. They'd driven both their parents crazy as kids, their living room turned into a battlefield as they built forts and launched pillow bombs at each other, their shared bedroom a space station as they fought evil aliens, their small backyard their own personal wildlife preserve where they could wrestle and roll around in the grass until they got too big for any of it and gained their own bedrooms.

But even in their teenage years, Derek still loved his little brother, loved spending time with him. Playtime changed into practicing lacrosse together, Scott playing one-on-one basketball whenever their dad was too busy and Derek wanted to work on his skills. They watched the same TV shows, went to the movies together, hung out on a near daily basis. Derek would even go so far as to say Scott was his best friend. But even with all that, Derek still had other friends he hung out with, teammates he'd party with on the weekend, a girlfriend he went out with, while Scott stayed at home on his computer, chatting with people who may or may not actually be named Stiles and may or may not actually live in California.

That was the thing about the internet. As much as Scott wanted to believe this guy, he could totally be lying about being a sixteen year old living across the country.

Not that Scott took Derek seriously when he said any of that shit, but whatever. Wasn't like Derek hadn't seen every episode of "Catfish" ever.

Focusing his attention on his basketball, Derek kept up the conversation with his brother as he spun the ball with his left hand. "Oh, your imaginary boyfriend?"

That earned him another huff, causing another smirk to form on his face. "Okay," Scott started, annoyance back in his voice. "One: he's not imaginary."

"Funny how that's the part you point out first," Derek commented, his statement going ignored as his brother went on as though he hadn't been interrupted.

"And two: he's not my boyfriend."

The elder snorted, catching the basketball before it fell onto the floor. "Yeah, right," he replied with an eye roll. "You guys talk as much as me and Kate. You're totally dating."

The smaller male turned to the larger, dark eyes locking onto light ones, both wearing a "get serious" expression. "I'm not gay."

"Didn't say you were."

"Not all of us are whores like you, Derek."

"You call it being a whore," he started, balancing the basketball on his finger again. "I call it keeping my options open." He grinned at the eye roll he got in response.

Derek's bisexuality wasn't a secret in their family, not since their dad had caught him kissing another guy back in his freshman year. He'd been embarrassed as hell, but after a long talk with both parents, he realized there was nothing to be ashamed of and that it was perfectly okay with them. Explaining it to an eleven year old Scott had been awkward and more than a little difficult, but Derek had managed, Scott taking the whole thing the only way he knew how: with a wide grin, sparkling brown eyes, and an easy-going shrug. Derek doubted anything could get his younger brother down.

Their maternal grandmother—or Abuela, as she preferred to be called—wasn't so thrilled, still believing the whole thing was just a curious phase, especially since he was now in a relationship with a girl. Derek's mom had reassured him that she was just from a different time and had a different mindset and that didn't mean she loved him any less. The words had done their job and he learned not to let it bother him whenever his abuela made any sort of passive-aggressive comment on his sexuality, just like he ignored similar statements from his mom about his girlfriend.

Basketball back on his lap, he pulled his cell out of his jeans pocket, checking for messages. Nothing from Kate. Hardly a surprise. She'd texted him earlier asking if he wanted to go out later that night, an offer he'd turned down, which had unsurprisingly pissed her off. His dad was supposed to be home early to help him practice lacrosse in the park, something that had become a rarity lately as his old man had gotten busier and busier with his job. But no matter how much work he had piled up, he still made sure that the weekend was family time, starting with that Friday night and helping his eldest son try to make captain that year. Derek wanted to end his high school career on top and really leave his mark on his school's athletic history and with his dad's help, he had a good feeling he'd do just that.

But whenever he explained that to Kate, his girlfriend would roll her eyes and mutter out a "whatever". Despite being a varsity cheerleader, she still didn't see the point in spending so much time practicing, not to mention she loathed having anything to do with her own family and therefore didn't get why Derek would wanna hang with his. His mom let out a non-committal "hmm" when he talked to her about it, obviously trying not to badmouth her son's girlfriend who she obviously disapproved of, despite never saying so out loud. His dad chalked it up to them just coming from different families, that Derek's was closer due to his mom's side being on the west coast and his dad's side having nothing to do with them, leaving them with just each other.

No matter the case, Derek still found himself wishing that Kate understood his desire to hang with his family, especially now that they were preparing to become seniors, meaning it was their last year at home before going off to college. Derek wanted to soak in every last moment he had with his family before he left them. Kate just wanted to leave already.

Sometimes Derek felt like he was just another person she was waiting to ditch as well, just like the rest of her family. Especially when she didn't text him anything other than a "_fine, loser_" when he turned her date offer down.

He decided not to let it bother him, told himself that he'll just head over to her place tomorrow bearing gifts and make it up to her. It'd probably take some grovelling, but whatever. Wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

Relationships between two Alphas weren't without its complications. And ego-blows.

The lack of messages displayed allowed Derek to see the time, making him realize he should probably get a start on making dinner. With his dad always working late and his mom's shifts at the hospitals never resembling anything close to normal, he'd been put in charge of cooking more often than either of his parents. He didn't mind it, especially since it got him out of dishwashing duty. But there was also a small amount of satisfaction that came with seeing others enjoy what he made. Plus he never had to eat something he didn't like, so that was awesome.

Rising to his feet, he put his basketball where he'd been sitting, adjusting his t-shirt around his waist before heading to the kitchen. He heard the usual ticka-ticka-ticka of Scott's fingers across the keyboard as he typed furiously in response to whatever it was Stiles—if that was even his real name—had said, followed by a small silence, a chuckle, then more typing.

Derek sent a quick text to Kate as he walked, asking if she wanted to hang the next day, grateful for werewolf senses that allowed him to do two things at once and not run into a table or a wall. Message sent, he slid his phone back in his pocket and set about trying to find something to make. Grocery shopping the day before had filled their cabinets, giving him countless possibilities, but in all honesty, he was craving meat.

Not much of a change there.

He opened the fridge door, trying to locate the ground meat for burgers, hearing the sound of Scott closing his laptop and placing it on the coffee table before he shuffled his way into the kitchen.

"You and Dad still practicing lacrosse after dinner?" the younger McHale questioned, pulling out a chair and plopping down on it in his usual graceless manner.

Derek nodded, pulling the pack of meat out the fridge as he rose to his full six-foot height. A quick glance out the kitchen window showed it was still light out, one of the upsides of it being mid-June. Not that it mattered really. Being a fully mature werewolf meant Derek now had night-vision, allowing him to see perfectly at midnight as he would at noon.

"Think I could join ya?"

He turned his head to see his brother's lips twisted in a lopsided grin that matched his jaw, hope sparkling in his dark brown eyes. He looked a lot like their mom, something that would just randomly come to Derek at times. But it was true. Both had the same tan skin, same curly black hair, same dark eyes. Made their whole family picture look even more perfect, considering how Derek resembled their dad more with the same wide build and sharp features. His bright eyes weren't from his father though, the patriarch having brown ones like the rest of his family. Derek figured he gained the eye color from someone on his paternal side, since no one ever mentioned why they were that shade, just like no one ever talked about the McHale side of their gene-pool.

Derek shrugged a shoulder in response to his brother's inquiry, not really seeing a problem with it. He'd been planning on practicing shots with their dad, something that Scott could stand to partake in himself. And with the old man being a full-blooded werewolf, he could handle both his sons throwing balls at him at the same time and still defend the goal.

Not that the human half of their DNA slowed them down. The werewolf gene was more dominant, making both McHale boys wolves themselves, giving them all the powers that came with it. Because of that, they were enrolled in the local werewolf academy in Queens, a requirement since werewolves had become a known thing. Human parents had worried about their kids going to school with "monsters" and how unfair athletics would be against those with preternatural abilities. Werewolf parents were more concerned with the schools discriminating against their kids and being unable to understand the problems that came with full moons and heat cycles. So separate school systems were set in place: one for humans, one for Alphas and Betas, another for Omegas, whose powers put them a step above humans but scent made them a target for attacks by Alphas and Betas, especially those close to heat. In order to avoid any rapes or fights amongst Alphas over who gets to claim the Omega, the group was given its own K-12th academy in Manhattan.

Colleges, apparently, were just a free-for-all, although most tended to be understanding and willing to work with werewolves when it came to moon and heat cycles. It was a major topic when Derek had begun his researching process as he tried to figure out where he wanted to apply. He'd been lucky when he found out that most of his top choices all had special allowances for those who tended to grow fur and walk on four legs.

Scott's grin grew, overtaking his entire face, curly hair covering his forehead. Derek kept telling him it looked like he had a fluffy brown bowl over his head, but the younger male didn't take him seriously on that either. Their mom telling him he had a great head of hair didn't help.

"If," Derek started then paused, watching as his brother's smile dimmed slightly. "It's still light out."

That killed it.

Scott frowned, lips turned down at the corners as he picked at his thumbnails. Or lack thereof really, considering how much he chewed on them. It was a miracle the guy could produce claws really. "What time's Dad supposed to be home anyway?"

The question had Derek pulling his phone out and rechecking the time. Five fifty-seven. Even with rush hour traffic and the fact that it was a Friday, their dad should've already been home by then.

Assuming he even left at five.

"I dunno," Derek muttered, putting the packaged ground meat on the counter before typing up a text to their father asking where he was. "Figured he'd be here by now."

Scott nodded, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he focused on the table. Derek noted how his brow was furrowed, how his eyes seemed distant, recognizing the look.

"It's probably nothing," he reassured his younger brother, pocketing his cell once more. "He probably got caught up in work again and lost track of time. You know how he is."

The leaner male nodded more, small smile playing on his lips as he looked up at his brother. "Yeah, probably." His voice was small, like he wanted to believe it but for some reason didn't. It wasn't like him to be so negative and pessimistic about things, especially when it came to their dad not being home on time. Both of them knew not to fully rely on their old man coming back when he said he would, both well aware that when his dad got into his work, it was hard to take him out of it. They'd heard countless stories of him working through lunch breaks and staying late because he had no idea what time it was, despite the lack of sun in the sky. Derek had lost track of the number of games their dad had missed, figuring their was no point in keeping count. Besides, he always seemed to show up for the ones that _really_ mattered, the first and last ones of the year, the play-offs, any championships, something that made the missed matches not that big a deal.

Derek figured Scott would know that by now, that neither of them should put too much hope into their dad being there at a certain time. It wasn't that he did it on purpose, but being the main source of income for their family meant he had to work a lot, something both kids understood. But he always put his family first, never missing birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays, making sure each event was special and his job wasn't brought up.

Practicing shots with his eldest son in the park on a random Friday night during summer break wasn't what anyone would call special, meaning Derek hadn't really expected his dad to show up on time.

Scott, apparently, had.

Reaching over the table, Derek put a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Relax. It's not a big deal," he reassured him, his heartbeat even and smooth. Scott's hearing wasn't as developed as Derek's, but the elder McHale still hoped the younger could tell there wasn't a lie hidden in there.

Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Derek straightened up as his phone rang in his pocket. "See? That's probably him now," he commented with a "told ya so" look on his face, not bothering to check to see who was trying to contact him as he pulled his cell out and answered the call. "Hello?"

"_Derek?_" Definitely not his dad. Not unless his dad had suddenly become an elderly sounding female. An elderly sounding female who was clearly shaken up by something.

Pulling the phone from his ear, he checked the screen to check who had dialed him, finding the number he'd programmed in his contacts under his mom's work displayed.

LaGuardia Hospital.

Shit.

He felt his stomach drop, panic causing a tingle to break out over his skin. Focusing, he tried to keep his breathing even and smooth, despite the fact that his heartbeat felt louder in his ears. But he needed to remain calm in front of his brother, to make sure he didn't cause any anxiety in Scott.

Easier said than done.

Swallowing, he put the phone back against his ear, mind racing with a million thoughts, none of them good. His mom hardly ever called from work, only ever sending an "I'm okay" text during her breaks when she was working overnight shifts and those usually went to his dad's cell. And even on the extremely rare occasion that she _did_ call, she always did it from her own phone, not the hospital's.

Basically, no good was gonna come from this call.

Derek gripped the back of the chair before him, using it to ground himself, refusing to let paranoia and worry take over and cause him to lose control. "Who's calling?" he questioned down the line, feeling a small amount of pride at how even his voice sounded despite the shakiness within himself.

"_This is Sheila. I work with your mom?_" It sounded like a question, like she was making sure Derek knew exactly who she was and why she'd be calling him, before she continued. "_There's been an accident._"

* * *

Things went fuzzy for a while after that. Derek vaguely remembered hanging up on Sheila, remembered yelling at Scott to grab his shoes as he raced for the keys to his car, remembered getting in it. The drive itself was a blur, warped images of his claws digging into his steering wheel and his fangs biting into his lower lip until all he could taste was his own blood. His heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears, skin feeling too tight, too hot. His mind was racing as fast as his Camaro, countless possibilities of what had happened to his mom running through his brain, each one worse than the last.

And it wasn't like he hadn't had those thoughts before. He always worried about her at work, especially on overnight shifts, afraid that someone would come in high on what-the-fuck-ever, that they'd attack and hurt her, stab her, kill her. He worried about feral werewolves showing up and biting, scratching, maiming her. He worried about her being shot by a random crazed gunman, about her being infected after being stuck with a dirty needle, about her being taken by some psych patient who got too attached.

He knew his dad had similar thoughts, would watch the elder McHale rub his cheek on his wife as he held her close, covering her in his scent so no one would touch her. But even still, there was always the possibility of a wolf not caring who she belonged to, would hurt her despite or even because of it. None of the McHale men slept well when she worked during the night, all four members of the family looking like zombies at the breakfast table. Although clearly they were happy zombies, knowing the lone female had survived and had come home to them in one piece.

Apparently they weren't having a meal like that the next morning.

Derek must've parked somewhere because the next thing he knew, he was bursting through the emergency room doors and racing to the counter, the sounds of his younger brother scrambling behind him in his ear. Scott's heartbeat was just as frantic and erratic as his own, despite not knowing what was going on. He had to have had an idea at that point, considering they were at their mother's place of employment and Derek still had visible claws and fangs, eyes glowing red as he stared at the nurse working reception.

"Melissa McHale?" he managed to get out, mentally cringing at the snarl in his words.

The nurse's eyes flashed gold, a sign she was a werewolf and understood his lack of control, that she wasn't offended by his lack of manners or his gruff way of speaking. "Derek and Scott?" she questioned in response, glancing back and forth between both brothers as she rose to her feet.

Her voice was familiar, even without the static of a phone line, and her name tag showed she was Sheila. Derek nodded frantically, breath sawing in and out of his lungs as he tried to get a grip on his emotions and failed. He needed to see his mom, needed to make sure she was okay, needed...

"Down that way," she pointed to the double-doors on her right, wordlessly giving permission for them to go through. Not that anyone could stop either McHale brother if they tried to go through it without technically being allowed. Getting between a werewolf and an injured family member was tantamount to suicide.

Scott thanked her for both of them, clapping his brother on the back before they both jogged over. Derek shoved the doors open with more force than necessary, racing down the hall with his younger brother on his heels.

He always hated the smell of the hospital, the too strong scents of disinfectants and cleaners, the lingering stench of blood and death, fear and concern. He wondered how any werewolf could stand going to a place where they'd constantly be surrounded by the smells of worry and grief, sickness and disease, but figured they'd get used to it, become immune to it in a sense.

He never would.

Especially as he was hit in the face with a too familiar scent of blood and family, loss and depression, tears and anguish.

Oh. God. No.

Halfway down the hall, a group of nurses stood gathered around someone seated, the air around them thick with despair and loss. Derek's heart plummeted even further into his knotted stomach as he slowed to a stop, his entire being overtaken by the anxiety of his worst fears having been realized. His mind was buzzing like a beehive that had been hit and he felt a thousand stings all over his body, his throat swelling shut, his pounding heart too big in his too tight chest.

The seated figure rose, the group moving to allow her to move, to step forward, to head towards her sons.

Nurse McHale. Their mom was okay.

Derek felt his breath leave him in a rush as relief flooded him at the sight of his mom walking over, noting how there was no limp, no bruises, no cuts. But as he strode over, Scott by his side, he discovered blood on her scrubs—something that could easily be written off as a side-effect of working in an emergency room, since she'd come home on several occasions with her uniform in a similar state. But the tear tracks on her cheeks couldn't be as easily explained, nor could the scent of her grief and loss. And as she reached out to pull both of them into a hug, she began sobbing harder, gripping onto both of their t-shirts as though she was holding them in place, preventing someone from ripping them away from her.

"Mom?" Scott's voice was as shaky as his heartbeat, his own worry a bitter scent in Derek's nose. His brown eyes were wider than usual as they flipped over to his older brother, hoping for some sorta explanation.

But Derek had nothing but a gut-feeling and a godawful theory, having hung up after Sheila had mentioned the word "accident". Part of him wished he'd gotten the whole story before racing down to LaGuardia. The other part of him realized it wouldn't matter.

Their mom sniffed loudly, lifting her head from where she'd had it buried in Derek's chest. He was vaguely aware of a wet spot that now resided on the front of the fabric, but his mind was more focused on his mother, on the broken look on her face, the deep despair in her dark eyes. She was so small, something that sometimes escaped him as he heard about her fighting to save lives, witnessed her bossing around doctors twice her size and strength, heard her putting her werewolf husband and children in place. But at that moment, she was every inch the tiny, frail human that she truly was.

And Derek was more terrified than ever.

"It's your dad," she stated before sniffing again, managing to keep her voice even. Her fingers tightened on both her son's t-shirts, her entire body shaking as she tried to keep it all together, only to fail. "He. He's gone." She broke down once more, face resting on Scott's chest now as her younger son wrapped his lean arms around her and began crying himself.

Derek didn't move, _couldn't_ move. Something inside of him broke off completely, the sound of his entire world crashing down ringing in his head as he stared off at nothing. And as his mother and brother sobbed violently against him, he felt himself go completely numb.

* * *

They had to move.

Their mom couldn't stand living in New York City anymore, not after their dad had died. The house had become nothing but a reminder of what had been, every inch holding a memory of the person they'd lost. The armchair where their dad had watched TV. The desk in the corner where he'd paid the bills and did the budget. The chair at the head of the table where he'd eaten every meal. The spot along the sidewalk where he'd parked his car, a car that had been totaled after an eighteen-wheeler had run a red light and side-swiped him on the driver's side.

He'd been killed on impact.

Derek had asked, _demanded_ to be told what happened. Scott didn't wanna hear it, had taken their mom to the break room where he held her as they both cried. But Derek needed to know what had gone down, why his dad had been taken from them so early and so suddenly. And as he listened to the on-call doctor explain the accident and his dad's injuries, he felt himself grow cold, distant. It was like he was listening to someone in another room, forcing him to really focus in order to hear all the words and even when he did, they barely registered.

He didn't remember the drive home or the next few days.

At the funeral, he sat stoically with his mom, she sobbing as she clung onto both her son's hands, the grip bruising to a human. Scott had cried, although it was quieter, subtly wiping away tears with the sleeve of his blazer.

Derek hadn't shed a tear, not even when they lowered his dad's casket into the ground, not even when he stood there watching them shovel dirt back into the hole they made, not even when he planted the wolfsbane flower by the gravestone. His mom couldn't bear to do it. His dad's family hadn't showed up.

His mom had asked if he was okay after the wake, when everyone had gone home and he was busy putting away the leftovers. He'd simply commented that he wondered if people brought families food because no one felt like cooking after someone died and if they didn't supply meals, the family would starve and end up buried next to the person they'd just put in the ground. His mom had given him a look he couldn't—and didn't want to—decipher, so he left the room without uttering another word.

Things didn't get any better. Scott became more withdrawn than usual, sitting sullenly on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. Derek would see him texting every now and then, presumably to Stiles, considering how Scott had brought the other boy up and mentioned how he'd lost a parent, too, so he was able to talk about things with him. But other than that, the younger McHale son was cut-off from his internet world, no social media sites, no WoW, nothing. Derek would hear him sniffing every now and then, would catch the scent of tears and loss on him, but he never saw any crying.

Their mom was just as bad, taking the allotted three grievance days before using her vacation and sick days, remaining in bed for most of the day. On the rare occasion she was up and about, she was always in her pajamas and bathrobe, shuffling like a zombie with unwashed tangled hair and the overwhelming stench of despair and depression hanging around her like oversprayed perfume. She never smiled, which wasn't all that surprising really, the light that seemed to be a constant presence in her dark eyes now gone, her expression as sullen as her mood.

Nurses from LaGuardia would stop by every now and then to offer condolences, along with flowers and baked goods. Derek thought it was a stupid human tradition, insensitive really. To him, cakes and pies were for holidays and birthdays, celebrations of some description, not suitable for telling someone you were sorry for their loss. It was almost like a slap in the face and he trashed every single one Scott brought into the kitchen.

They didn't hear from the McHale side of the family, which seemed perfectly normal considering that was how things had been the first eighteen years of Derek's life. He'd just thought that the death of one of them would cause them to put aside petty bullshit and reach out to the next generation of their bloodline. Apparently he was wrong.

His abuela called on a daily basis, Scott always answering the house phone and lying about how things were okay there. He'd jog up to their mom's room to tell her who was on the line, only to sullenly return and say it wasn't a good day.

"_It's never a good day,_ querida."

"Yeah, I know."

Derek stopped talking completely. Aside from his commentary on people providing food at wakes and telling his mom that Kate wasn't coming to the funeral—which earned him an "I'm sorry, sweetheart" that he ignored—he hadn't said a word since that night at the hospital when his dad had died. He just didn't have anything to say. To anyone.

Scott had offered to talk, which had gotten him a slammed door to the face. His mom would rub his arm and ask if he was okay, which he'd ignore and leave the room, abandoning whatever task he'd been in the middle of. Friends and teammates had texted their condolences, but he wouldn't reply. He went over to Kate's once, the day before the funeral, but spent the entire time sitting there, unresponsive even to her touches. She ended up getting annoyed and told him if he wasn't gonna fuck her, he might as well leave.

And he did just that. He hadn't talked to her since.

Derek became even more cut-off than his mom and brother, who at least responded to other people's inquiries over their state of being. His mom forced small talk with her fellow nurses, crying on offered shoulders when her emotions became too heightened and everything was just too much. Scott had Stiles that he leaned on via texts, talking to his online buddy about whatever was on his mind. And it wasn't that Derek didn't have anyone, because he did. He just didn't want them.

A week after they buried his dad, his mom announced they were moving to California. She needed a change, _they_ needed a change, she explained, further adding that she still had family out there and all three of them could use the support during this time. God knew they weren't getting it from the other McHales.

Scott nodded, tiny smile on his face as he agreed to the plan, saying whatever their mom wanted and thought was best, ever the supportive one. Derek simply got up from his seat on the couch and headed straight to his room without looking at either of them.

Standing in his room, he stared at his belongings, at the trophies and awards he'd received playing sports. It had been something he shared with his dad, father-son bonding through a shared love of physical competition. His dad had taught him how to play, how to sink a free-throw, spin a ball on his finger, make a pass behind his back, how to trick the goalie, avoid defenders, use his wolf-vision to find the ball even in the rain.

But now his dad was gone. No more one-on-one basketball, no more practicing lacrosse shots, no paternal cheerleading from the crowd.

No more sports.

In one swift move, he knocked the trophies off one his shelves, before smashing the actual shelves. Ribbons were torn, trophies broken, certificates slashed, all in a fit of rage. His vision was red and all he could think about was destroying all of it, of breaking it into pieces, just like his family had been. His entire world had come crashing down due to a red light and a smashed car. It was only fitting he do the same to the very thing that he'd allow to define him for so long.

_"You're Andrew McHale's kid, right? The athlete?"_

Not anymore.

When it was done, when nothing remained of his former self, he stood there observing the damage through red-tinted vision, his chest heaving, his eyes glowing, his body shaking. A glance in the mirror showed he was in his hybrid form, fangs on display, claws extended, brow hardened and enlarged as his sideburns grew longer. He'd completely lost it, had allowed his wolf partial control. And it'd felt amazing.

His dad wouldn't be proud that he'd lost his grip, hadn't kept a hold of his anchor and stayed human, stayed calm and in control.

That thought made him want to fully wolf out and just forget to be human ever again. He had a feeling they wouldn't figuratively stop their lives because someone had literally had their's stopped for them.

Grabbing his keys, Derek stormed out his room, through the house, and out the front door to his car, all thoughts centered on getting to a local wooded preserve in order to shift and run. He needed to run, needed the wind in his fur, needed the numb, emotionless state that came with being in his full wolf form.

He briefly considered staying a wolf for the rest of his life. Sounded a million times better than how things were going for him at that moment.


	2. Move

_**A/N: **__Ignoring any and all comments and the fandom uproar that happened this week and just gonna say HEY LOOK A CHAPTER YOU SHOULD READ AND TELL ME WHATCHA THINK OF IT AND STUFF \ (^u^) /_

_Also I just really like that smiley dude guyer thing..._

_Um, a scene towards the end of this chapter might seem a li'l slightly tiny bit dub-con-y, so...warning for that. "The Lost Boys" is property of whoever in the 80s made it (and hopefully not whatever dumbass who decided there should be a sequel with Taylor Townsend from "The OC"—whom I love, but no, sweetheart. No.). I just referenced it with love. Other than that, enjoy, lemme know whatcha think, and have a Palm Woods Day :D_

* * *

The move took place six weeks after his dad had been buried.

Derek had returned to his house after the sun had long set, ignoring Scott's questions about where he'd been and why was he covered in dirt and sweat. The younger werewolf couldn't fully shift yet and therefore didn't know about the relief that came with running on four legs and letting go of everything that made you human, even if it was only temporary. Derek wasn't about to explain it.

The broken trophies, awards, and certificates were gone when he'd walked into his room. He never asked where they went or who cleaned it up. He remained silent but thankful that he didn't have to deal with that shit himself.

The next week was dedicated to Melissa getting the house ready to sell, which meant obsessively cleaning it. Scott and Derek were recruited to help, Scott obviously pleased to see her up and about and spending more time out of bed than in it. Derek welcomed the distraction of doing something other than having to deal with everyone's depression over the McHale patriarch's death.

Melissa dealt with the realtor, sending the boys out whenever the house was being shown to perspective buyers. Scott would request lacrosse practice, would offer to play one-on-one basketball, but Derek said no every time. The younger McHale gave up after a week.

It took about a month for the house to sell, after which they got serious about packing everything, an event that took about two days. The furniture was put into storage, boxes of their belongings sent off to California a few days before their moving date, leaving the house an empty husk of what had once been a home. Derek tried not to see it as a metaphor and failed. His last night there, he'd laid awake on top of his sleeping bag in the middle of his bare room, staring at his ceiling as he thought about how much he felt like the chamber itself. Both were hollow and void of anything resembling life, but unlike him, his room would soon be inhabited by someone else, someone who would appreciate the blue walls and the hardwood floors, the large windows and decent sized closet, the spacious interior and attached bathroom.

He couldn't say the same about himself.

Breakfast was at their favorite diner before they got in a cab and headed to the airport to fly to California. Their cars had been shipped ahead of time to their abuela's house, Melissa assuring Derek that his Camaro would be fine and would make it in one piece. Part of him hoped it crashed, but he didn't say so out loud. He still hadn't spoken since after his dad's wake.

They landed in San Fran at noon local time, their abuela there to pick them up. Maria Delgado was a petite woman, her olive skin wrinkled, her thick black shoulder-length hair streaked with gray, long caramel cardigan swallowing her fragile frame as she reached out to them with arthritic hands. She smothered her daughter in a bone-crushing hug, Spanish condolences and words of comfort rolling off her tongue in hushed tones Derek heard solely due to his werewolf auditory skills. She then hugged Scott and commented on how big he'd gotten, the compliment making him beam and smile bigger than he had for a few weeks. She looked Derek up and down before asking how "that girlfriend of yours is". He shrugged and shook his head, Melissa supplying the info that he'd broken up with her. Hadn't been a hard decision really. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks and the move made a good excuse.

'Course doing it via text message probably wasn't the best idea, especially considering her response was a simple "_fuck you, derek._" but he didn't care. It was over. That was the only thing that mattered.

The four of them piled into Maria's car—a station wagon, because of course she'd have one—Melissa insisting on driving. Their suitcases stashed in the back, she got behind the wheel, her mom in the passenger seat providing directions that were always paired with a "I know, Mom, thanks." Scott sat in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward between the two front ones, clearly excited to be starting a new adventure. Derek was silent as always, staring out the side window and watching the scenery whiz by in blurs of green, brown, and gray.

He hated California already.

He could feel Melissa watching him through the rear view mirror, could smell the concern rolling off her, mixing with Scott's joy and Maria's own mix of the two emotions.

"Ya know," the younger female started, and he closed his eyes, really wishing she wouldn't. He wasn't in the mood for any conversations to be started, to hear any lectures or talks about whatever the hell she wanted to discuss. "Silence is golden" was a cliché for a reason, mostly because it was true.

"I think this will be good for us," she stated with a sharp nod to the head, as though backing up her own argument. "A fresh start, with the fresh air, being surrounded by supportive people who are far less judgmental than New Yorkers. This is _exactly_ what we need."

Derek ground his teeth, resting his scruff covered jaw on his hand as he reopened his eyes and watched as a red sedan sped by them on the outside lane. He wished his iPod battery hadn't died during the flight. He could use his headphones at that moment, could use the auditory blocks of Linkin Park screaming in his ears rather than having to listen to whatever bullshit his mom was spouting as a means to justify her stupid decisions. They didn't need to move clear across the country, didn't need a fresh start. They needed Andrew back.

"Isn't this how 'The Lost Boys' started?" Scott questioned, referring to some stupid vampire movie he'd made Derek watch months ago because Stiles had insisted it was a "classic". Could hardly count as a classic when it was from the eighties, but that was beside the point. "The mom and her two sons in the car heading to their new California home where they'd be staying with one of her parents, only it's full of literal stuffed animals and the town is infested with vampires and the elder almost turns into one?"

The elder brother in their current _actual_ situation rolled his eyes. Only Scott would get so worked up over a hypothetical situation inspired by a stupid fucking movie.

"Except there's no vampires in Beacon Hills," Melissa pointed out calmly, sounding a little too insistent.

"Just the usual werewolves and hunters," Maria added, smirking at her youngest grandson. "And don't worry. I don't practice in taxidermy."

"Too bad," Derek spoke up, turning his head and looking at the others. "I was looking forward to impaling someone on a set of deer antlers."

Scott stared at him with his eyes wide and his uneven jaw dropped. Maria raised her eyebrows, looking taken aback before turning to her daughter for a confirmation that he was actually joking. Melissa glared at him via the rear view mirror.

"Six weeks of not talking and _that_ is what you chose to say?" she questioned, voice hard as she scolded him, sounding a lot like it had when he was a kid and she ordered him to stop telling Scott there was a monster under his bed that ate his skin while he slept and that the tooth fairy would take his fangs if he ever bit anyone.

Derek shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, wordlessly saying he didn't see the big deal about what he'd said, before turning back to the window.

Scott moved back to the seat opposite Derek on the back row, Maria turning to face the windshield, Melissa sighing. The rest of the ride was as silent as the eldest McHale son.

Derek felt no remorse for killing the mood.

* * *

Maria's home turned out to be a perfectly normal two-story house in a nice suburban neighborhood. Comprised of red brick, Derek took note of the painted front porch with its iron railings, the door and shutters all black, the slanted roof with its stereotypical black shingles. It was nothing extraordinary, nothing special, but as the station wagon pulled into the driveway, he heard Melissa let out a sigh that made it seem as though it was the most spectacular thing she'd ever seen.

Then again, if they were to turn the car around and head right back to NYC, he'd probably make a similar noise at the sight of their old house.

The engine killed, all four of them got out the car, stretching cramped limbs after a two hour drive. Scott made noises that made it seem as though his joints were as bad as Maria's and Derek fought the urge to throw something at his head in order to give him something to _really_ feel achy over.

Too bad he didn't have anything in his grasp at that moment. Maria probably wouldn't appreciate him throwing the entire car.

Suitcases were grabbed and they headed towards the front door, following the eldest member of their group. Derek scanned his surroundings, taking in the other houses, the cars parked in various driveways. Someone a few lawns down was mowing, a mail truck was heading down the opposite side of the road, birds were chirping in trees as a squirrel raced across the road, barely being missed by a sedan. All in all, it was pretty typical of a mid-sized town, nothing too exciting or out of the norm there.

He hated it.

Sure, they lived in nice neighborhood in Queens, not exactly the thriving metropolis that was downtown Manhattan, but still close enough to the city that it was never boring. It was a quick drive to get to the excitement, something Derek did often enough, relishing the sights, sounds, and scents of the Big Apple.

But here? Here it was quiet and calm and peaceful and everything Derek _didn't_ want. He wanted loud, he wanted crazy, he wanted wild. He wanted to not be in California living with an octogenarian.

And just like everything else in his life, he wasn't getting what he wanted.

The inside of the house was cool, the AC at just the right temp to fight off the heat of an early August day. The walls were a sunny yellow, the furniture all light oak, and the place had the warm feeling of a family home, despite there only being one person residing in it.

Well, until that day at least.

Maria didn't bother with a tour, the family having spent multiple vacations visiting her at this very house. Vacations that saw Scott and Derek sharing one of the two guestrooms.

Shit.

It wasn't that Derek had an issue in the past with the two of them sharing the same space. But that was usually only for a week, and it hadn't happened since he was twelve when his dad's increasing work schedule made family vacations out west a memory rather than a yearly thing. And all of that was long before Derek had decided that he was completely done with the whole interacting with other people bullshit. Not to mention the fact that he and Scott were a bit too old for living in the same room, even if the elder brother _was_ up for being social and nice. Which he wasn't.

Scott was shown to the first guestroom up the stairs, Maria suggesting that he get started on unpacking his suitcase. Their boxes weren't scheduled to arrive until the next day, allowing them the chance to decompress after the flight and focus on adjusting to the new environment—and time zone—rather than having to deal with sorting things out and putting everything away.

Melissa was lead into the second guestroom and Derek could smell the anguish rolling off her as she set her eyes on the queen sized bed against the wall, the framed photo of her wedding on one of the nightstands. Scott left his room and pulled her into a one-armed hug as her own mother squeezed her hand in a sympathetic motion. Derek remained in the hallway, leaning against the wall and staring at a framed panoramic photo of Maria's hometown in Mexico, not really seeing the image.

So much for their fresh start. Seemed like things were gonna be just as shitty in California as they had been in New York, only now with the added bonus of mourning over the loss of his and Scott's childhood home and the life they'd had there. The only life they'd known really. And now it was gone, just like their dad.

Fucking terrific.

After several minutes of insisting she was okay—which was a total lie—Scott went back to his room looking like a rejected puppy, complete with invisible tail between the legs. Maria gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek before turning to her eldest grandson, motioning with her head for him to follow. Adjusting his grip on his suitcase, Derek nodded once before following her down the hall.

At the end sat a door he knew opened up to the attic stairs and she led him up them, holding onto the railing to aid her steps. Derek rolled his eyes at the slow pace, wanting the whole thing to just be over with already so he can be left the fuck alone. But no. Once again the universe was punishing him over some bullshit and he was stuck with exactly what he didn't want. Because that was his life now. Getting what he wasn't asking for, and receiving nothing he was actually desiring.

He figured he might as well just get used to it.

Didn't mean he didn't wanna claw off his own fucking skin or rip someone's throat out with his teeth though.

When they _finally_ reached the top of the stairs, Maria flipped on a light switch, illuminating the space via strategically placed bulbs set on the beam that ran along the center of the room. The roof slanted down where they stood, forcing Derek to slightly hunch over in order to fit his six-foot frame, his petite abuela having no issue with the low ceiling in that section of the space. Turning, he stepped past the railing guarding people from falling down the stairs and entered the attic proper, allowing him to scan the place and get a good look at it.

The attic took up the entire third story, wood flooring covering the whole space with no exposed insulation, unlike the attic they had back in New York that was used mostly for storage. The ceiling rose to a point along the center, dividing the room in half lengthways, a dirt-covered window on either end.

The pathway to the window on the right was partially obstructed by boxes of various sizes, age, and dust levels, along with a few odd pieces of decor: an old tall lamp, a mirror, a black trunk, a low set of drawers. Junk, in Derek's opinion, all without a proper place, relegated to this out of the way room and completely forgotten about. He tried not to think too much about what it meant that he was given this room, instead turning his head to check out the other side of it.

Under the window to the left was a queen-sized mattress and box spring set, two pillows and a sheet set stacked on top of them. To the right of the frameless bed was a milk crate with a lamp, a makeshift nightstand of sorts. A desk was situated along the left side of the area, a plain wooden chair tucked under it, neither matching, a tall oscillating fan just to the right of it aimed towards the bed. A tall set of drawers was over to the right of the space, obviously acting as a closet of sorts, since the place was never really designed to be a bedroom.

Which kinda made all the electrical outlets a bit of question, but whatever. Just meant Derek didn't have to waste his own time installing them.

"This will be your room," Maria unnecessarily stated, stepping further into the open space in the middle of the attic. "I figured you and Scott were a bit too big to share one, and with you being older and apparently less social—" she gave him a pointed look that wordlessly told him that his mom had been telling her all about his recent lack of communicating with anyone. Whatever. "—you'd want the more private space."

Derek didn't say a word—not much of a change there—just simply meandered his way over to the mattress, dropping his suitcase unceremoniously on top. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of dust and wood, the musty smell of old things, Maria's perfume that she insisted on wearing despite knowing she had werewolf grandsons who couldn't stand that shit. The smell of everything was off and he felt his wolf-half whine internally, thrown off by all the changes in its surroundings. The human-half wasn't too stoked on things either, but it wasn't like either of them had a choice.

"I had the sheriff and his son help me move the mattress and desk up here," she continued, oblivious to her grandson's lack of interest or completely uncaring. "They live next door, both very handsome and helpful, good people."

Derek stood with his back to her, eyes closed, fingers pinching his brow as he felt the beginnings of a headache. Between his wolf's obvious displeasure at its new environment and the less than suitable scents hanging around what was now his room, he was agitated as hell. The fact that he was being forced to be social—to a degree anyway—certainly wasn't helping shit and he had to consciously focus on not wolfing out and snapping at Maria to just fuck off already.

Human or not, she could be scary in her own way.

Besides, it wasn't like he had any interest in becoming friendly with the neighbors—or anyone else for that matter. His stay in Beacon Hills was temporary, a year max, before he was off to college—hopefully one back east. Getting to know someone—regardless of whether he had any interest in doing just that in the first place—was a stupid idea and one he wasn't about to give in to.

"I know it doesn't have a whole lot," she went on, her mule clogs scraping against the wood floor as she shuffled around behind him. "But I figure with you leaving for college soon, you won't need that much. And if you _do_ need something else, then feel free to take something from the other side of the attic. Or the basement. There's more stuff there."

He nodded because it seemed like the thing to do, dropping his hand with a slap against his denim clad thigh. The sparse furniture suited him just fine, gave the place an impersonal feel, which was exactly what he wanted. Anything more and he might actually feel inclined to stay, which just wasn't fucking happening. He wanted out and away from people, away from connections, away from having ties that could be severed between one heartbeat and the next. After all, if you didn't care about someone, then it didn't hurt when they were taken from you.

He wasn't gonna allow himself to be hurt ever again.

He heard Maria let out a resigned sigh, ignored her muttered Spanish prayer for strength and patience, barely nodded when she suggested he get settled and informed him dinner would be in a couple hours. Her slow footsteps receded down the stairs, punctuated by the door closing at the bottom, and Derek let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. He was alone.

Finally.

With a heavy sigh of his own, he turned and slumped down onto the mattress, surprised when only a minimum amount of dust came flying up. He had an absent thought of someone cleaning the bed, but let it go as quickly as it came, deciding it didn't matter who or how or why, just that it did and that it now smelled less musty than it could have.

Flopping onto his back, he rubbed his hands over his face repeatedly, feeling the rasp of six week's worth of not shaving scratch against his rough palms. He hadn't shaved since the day of his dad's funeral. He wondered if he ever would again and decided he wouldn't. He liked the look of it, liked the way it added to his lack-of-fucks-given aura, liked his mom's obvious disapproval at it.

Plus shaving was a hassle he just couldn't bring himself to even _think_ about dealing with, much less actually doing it. So bearded he shall remain.

Derek let his hands flop back above his head, causing scents buried in the mattress to rise up. He caught a whiff of the metal springs, foam core, and cotton outer layer, the dust and dirt from previous use, the distinctive odors of two males, one human and one werewolf.

It was the final two scents his wolf focused on, taking them apart and analyzing each note. There was a similar ring to them, leading him to believe they were related to one another. Probably the neighbor and his kid that Maria had previously mentioned, his mind supplied, making sense. But there was something about the more canine scent that Derek became entranced by, something he wanted to explore further, something that grabbed him by the nose and pulled him in...

His face was buried in the mattress, a fact he was only aware of when he tried to inhale deeply and found himself being slightly suffocated.

Derek shot up to his feet and over by the desk with lightning fast reflexes, his chest heaving as air rushed back into his lungs. His body felt tense, rigid, a coil wrapped too tight and ready to explode and it was only when he glanced down that he noticed he was trembling, claws extended, a red tinge to everything as his wolf sight took over.

What the fuck?

He took several deep breaths, in through the noise, out through the mouth, forcing himself to relax. He focused on the smell of the must, the dirt, the age of everything in the room, refused to think about the male scents on the mattress.

He slipped up.

Twice.

The third time he realized it was due to the underlying note in the werewolf's scent that he hadn't picked up originally, a certain sweet hint that was practically guaranteed to drive an Alpha like him crazy, thus fully explaining his need to bury himself in a mattress nose first.

The wolf was an Omega.

Fucking terrific.

Derek smeared a hand over his face, shook his head, cracked his neck, forcing himself to pull it together. The smell would fade, would be wiped out and covered by his own scent as he used the mattress himself, claimed it as his own territory and property.

He stopped himself before giving into the wolfy urge to roll around on top of the mattress, rubbing his check and scent-marking it. He hadn't done that since he was eight and Scott kept stealing his favorite Transformer action figure. He wasn't about to do it at his age as a fully grown—and mature—werewolf.

Besides, scent-marking like that meant he was staking a claim, that that thing—or person—was his permanently and that no one could take it—or them—from him. He wasn't about anything permanent these days, not when it could be so easily ripped away.

Feeling like he was in better control of his... well, his _everything_, Derek stepped back over to the bed in careful, cautious motions. He knew it wasn't gonna hurt him, couldn't suddenly leap up and bite him and demand his submission, but he couldn't prevent the wariness he felt when approaching it, the slight worry of having something as harmless as a scent overpower him like that again.

Fucking Omegas. Theoretically he knew that their scent could drive an Alpha wild, could hit the baser instincts and turn them into the animal they kept locked inside most days of the month. It was why Omegas had their own schools, why certain laws had been created after the "outing" of werewolves, to protect them from a feral rutting Alpha who didn't care about the words "no" or "stop" or "don't", only caring about giving into the primal instinct of mating.

But it was one thing to know all that, an entirely different thing to be hit in the face with the lingering scent of one. He felt like he finally fully understood all the necessary safety precautions put in place to protect Omegas, understood his dad's painful expression as he tried to explain to a then five year old Derek why his best friend at the time, Jimmy, wouldn't be going to the same kindergarten—or even the same school—as him and that it would be better for Derek to find new friends, _Beta_ friends. Derek had reluctantly agreed, although a lot of his friends turned out to be other Alphas, including his now-ex.

Funny, but Derek hadn't really thought about Jimmy since then, except a passing thought after his first heat a few months ago and an absent worry about whether the guy was okay. He'd heard Omegas had it worse during their time and if his was that bad, he couldn't imagine how terrible his childhood friend had had it. But then Kate had text him to come over and all thoughts of heats and Omegas and long lost pals had fled as fast as the "_k_" text he'd replied with.

Shoving thoughts of everyone and everything aside, Derek grabbed his suitcase off the bed and dropped it into the worn desk with a thud. Pillows were tossed onto the floor before he mechanically went through the motions of making the bed up. He caught the unknown Omega's scent twice, both times having to stop to collect himself—and prevent his claws from tearing into the sheet or mattress—inhaling deep gulps of air until his vision normalized. The pillows were thankfully new and he was able to put the cases over them without incident. He halfway considered turning the mattress the other way, since the Omega's scent was near the wall where his head would be laying, but decided he didn't have enough fucks left to do it. Besides, he wasn't gonna let some odor beat him. He was an Alpha, for fuck's sake, not some little bitch.

He tossed the pillows by the wall and spread the flat sheet out over the top of the mattress, making sure it was close to even on both sides. Job done, he flopped face-down on top of it, burying his nose in the pillows, taking in the sterile scent of the store they came from and the supposed mountain fresh smell of the laundry detergent the cases and sheets had been washed in.

The Omega's scent wasn't completely gone, but it was mostly dulled down, to the point where it was bearable and he could easily ignore it. He'd have to really search it out in order to fully smell it, which he had no intention of doing—at least that's what his human half believed. And since it was currently in control, it beat the wolf's urge to seek it out and roll around in it.

He tried not to think too much on what that could mean. Then he tried not to think about anything, getting lost in the sound of three distinct heartbeats in the house and ignoring the depression that came with the realization that the third didn't belong to who he wanted it to.

* * *

The scents of browning meat, spices, and tortillas woke Derek up from a nap he wasn't aware he'd been taking. Pushing himself up, he inhaled sharply, analyzing each smell, before trying to orient himself. Maria's attic, on his stomach on the mattress that was now his bed.

A mattress with a dizzying scent.

Shaking his head, he pushed back until he was sitting on his knees, rubbing his face in an attempt to fully wake up. There was no clock in the room so he had no idea what time it was, but he figured he had to have been out for a couple hours. The room was darker now and as he glanced out the window behind him on the other side of the room, he could see the sun was lower, the sky dimmer.

He shoved a hand through his hair, causing the black locks to spike up more than usual, slowly rising to his feet. The flight had made him groggy, cagey, his wolf hating to be trapped for long periods of time like that. The jet lag wasn't helping things, especially as his stomach grumbled, reminding him it was past dinner time in New York.

His internal clock would be reset in a couple days, would adjust. He wasn't too sure about the rest of him.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Derek made his way to the stairs and down them, opening the door silently. The scents of Maria's cooking hit him full force, his stomach growling louder, like a obscenity-laced tirade reminding him that food exists and should be in him _now_. Not in the mood to argue, he padded his way down the hall, the sounds of conversation and laughter rising to greet him.

He found her standing behind the stove, stirring something in a frying pan—taco meat, if the shells laying on a nearby baking tray were anything to go by. Melissa was chopping something the next counter over—a quick sniff telling Derek it was tomatoes—as Scott put small bowls of cheese and lettuce on the table. With five settings.

Derek glared at the fifth seat, hating how normal it looked on the round table. It was the spot his dad always took, the same chipped plate and torn placemat. It wasn't unusual for a younger Derek and Scott to help by putting the dishes and cutlery out, to put those items there for their father, who would smirk and wink at his two boys for putting the same ones there every time.

But their dad was gone, wouldn't be joining them for dinner, and Derek had to fight the urge to smash the plate against the wall, just so it'd be just as gone as the man who used to eat off it.

"_Hola, querida._"

His head snapped over to Maria, the frown remaining on his face as he pointed at the offending place setting. "Who?" he growled, not sure if he was asking who had put it there or who the hell was gonna use it. As far as he'd known, it was just gonna be a family dinner, only the four of them as they all got adjusted to the new living situation. Now suddenly there was a guest, a guest who'd be taking his dad's seat and using his dad's dishes. Not something he'd be all too happy about even if he was his previous social self.

Even less so now that he knew he was being forced to interact with someone he didn't know.

Because things just weren't awesome enough.

"Stiles," Scott replied flatly, causing Derek's head to jerk over to him.

"The fuck is a 'Stiles'?" he growled back.

Melissa called his name in a warning tone, obviously a chastise against his language, while the other Alpha rolled his eyes.

"Stiles?" the younger McHale son repeated, this time in a "you seriously gotta be kidding me that you don't remember" tone. "My best friend? Turns out he lives in Beacon Hills."

"Right next door," Maria added on cheerfully, tapping her wooden spoon on the edge of the frying pan before adjusting the heat on the stove ring.

"Yup." Scott practically beamed, looking like a giant puppy who'd been given a new bone for being a good boy, dark eyes twinkling, lopsided grin as big as ever.

It was Derek's turn to roll his eyes, unable to believe any of this shit. Out of all the towns in the world, they moved to the one where his younger brother's online bromantic interest lived. And right next door, too. Because if the universe was gonna shit all over Derek, of fucking course it would pour down rainbows on Scott. It was how things seemed to be working for them lately.

Yet another upside about living in Cali-fucking-fornia.

Melissa called for Scott's assistance, the younger male literally bounding over, that stupid smirk still on his face. Derek wanted to punch it off him. Their dad had died; he had no right to be so fucking happy about anything.

Derek heard the footsteps on the porch before the ring of the doorbell, green eyes glancing between the backs of the other three members of the room, an eyebrow raised in a silent question as to whether or not someone was gonna answer that.

"Derek, can you get the door, hun?" Melissa requested, answering the inquiry he hadn't voiced.

Shit.

Not bothering to hide his huff, he turned and scuffed his way through the living room towards the front door, boots loud on the wooden floors. He found the door surprisingly unlocked, the knob turning easily within his grasp, the solid oak door barely resisting as he pulled it open.

The scent was the first thing that hit him, full force, like a blow to the head and the gut at the same time. It was the same smell that lingered on the mattress, the one that had him burying his face in it to try and get a better whiff. Yet there it was, without any dilution, without any blocks, only the additional light odors of cotton, denim, and some form of hair product.

Derek wanted to drown in it.

Without thinking, Derek's right hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of flannel and yanking the owner of the scent inside, spinning him around before slamming him against the wall. Distantly, he heard the sound of an "oomf!", the sound of the air being knocked out of someone, the sound of a low rumbling growl. But he didn't care. His vision had shifted to shades of red and orange, his teeth elongated into fangs, and all he could think about was getting more of that smell in his nose, held within his lungs, and _now_.

"Hey, man, what the fuck?"

The protest went ignored as he buried his face in the smooth column of a soft neck. A _male_ neck, judging by the note of testosterone held within the stranger's scent. Derek kept hold of the shirt as he inhaled deep, analyzing every layer and texture of the smell, the laundry detergent he used to wash his clothes—which smelled suspiciously like the one used on the sheets covering Derek's makeshift bed—the fabric he wore, the chemicals in his unscented deodorant, the cheeseburger he'd had for lunch, not stopping until he got to the very core of it. It was sweet, tempting, causing a buzz in Derek's head like he'd had too much sugar and caffeine and he wanted to race around the Grand Canyon five hundred times just because he could and because he wanted to prove that Red Bull really had given him wings.

He inhaled again, the scent further invading every inch of him until it was all he knew, until it was all he could breathe, until it had penetrated him right down to his very soul. His blood was rushing, pounding in his ears, pooling inside his jeans as the scent permeated his being and brought him higher than he thought possible.

And that was just from two inhales.

The third had him wrapping his free arm around a slender waist, pulling a lean frame against his broader one. He heard the sharp inhale of the other male, felt the shudder racing through an otherwise tense body, smelled his scent get stronger as a new spice joined in the mixture.

Arousal.

Derek's growl intensified, grew louder as he pressed himself against the stranger even more, trapping him between his body and the wall. He felt his cock harden, lengthen within the tight confines of his jeans and he moved his hips insistently against the lean frame he clung to. All rational thought had left his brain, his wolf controlling his actions, body acting completely on instinct. And at that moment, everything within him was screaming to just grab the guy, take him upstairs, and never let him leave.

'_Mine._'

He trailed his nose up along the column of the other male's neck, rumbling appreciatively at the shiver he received in response, at the spike in the stranger's scent, at the small moan that just barely escaped past parted lips. The leaner male was pliant in his arms, unyielding, allowing Derek to do anything and everything he wanted to—which was a lot, judging by the racing thoughts in his head.

As soon as the clothes were out the way.

Really, what the fuck was the point of clothing anyway? It was just wasting precious naked time, delaying the skin-on-skin action, obstructing the pure scent of this male, this stranger, this person who had so completely captivated Derek within seconds. He wanted the leaner one sprawled out on his bed, nude, wanted to be able to run his nose all over bare skin and take in his scent before covering it with his own, marking him, mingling their scents so that everyone around knew who he belonged to, that he was Derek's and that nobody better touch him unless they _wanted_ to lose a vital body part.

Or twelve.

He nuzzled into the other male's neck, scruff rasping smooth skin, before he grazed his teeth along the side of his throat. It would be so easy, so quick, just a tiny shift of his jaw and he could bite down, permanently mark, _claim_ this person as his, let the entire world know what he already did: that the stranger was his.

'_Mine._'

"Uh, Derek?"

His growls took on a more aggressive tone, his head lifting from the stranger's neck. He gripped onto the other male tighter, hunching over him to protect him from the intruder, feeling the stranger's body go rigid. Turning slightly, he bared his teeth to whoever had called his name, not caring who it was, only that they interrupted, that they were close to what was his, that they were a threat to take him away.

No fucking chance.

"Derek." The human part of him recognized it as Scott's voice, that the younger McHale was trying to keep an even tone, that there was a slight warning underneath it. "Let go of Stiles."

A brief flash hit him that that he should know what that meant, who that was, that those words put together should have some sort of significance. But his human side wasn't in control, his wolf having taken over and deciding his actions.

No way could that end badly.

"Derek, sweetie?" It was Melissa speaking now, cautious, easy. His head snapped to her, his snarls continuing, despite the fact that she didn't pose a threat. Her hands were in front of her, as though she was calming a wild animal—which, essentially, she was—her body slightly curled to show she meant no harm, the language of her frame speaking of submission. Inhaling sharply, Derek caught a whiff of her scent, of the fear and anxiety that had added a bitter note to her usual pleasant smell. Her heartbeat was tripping, bouncing, rapid, going along with the worry that was rolling off her.

Going along with three other heartbeats in the room.

With wide bright eyes, Derek took in the other occupants. Scott was to Melissa's left, his own body language similar to hers, only less submissive, the Alpha in him refusing to let him be afraid or bow down to anyone, regardless of age rankings. Maria was in the doorway leading to the kitchen, watching with concerned interest, her arthritic hands wringing a dishtowel. Her own fear was the sharpest scent, obviously unused to the nature of werewolves and their aggressive natures.

"Stiles isn't gonna hurt anyone," Melissa continued in the same calming tone as before, one she'd had plenty experience in using while raising two Alpha werewolf sons. "Just. Let him go, okay?" She nodded her head slowly, gently, as though that would help convince him to just agree with what she's saying.

Her words managed to cut through the fog of arousal and possession that the stranger's—that _Stiles'_ scent had created, clearing Derek's head and allowing him to fully take in the situation and come to grips with what exactly was happening. And what was happening wasn't all that great. His family seemed to believe that Derek was viewing Stiles as a threat, that he was attacking the teenager because he was a danger to them, that he was gonna harm this relatively unknown person out of some primal instinct to defend his territory and family.

And from the way Stiles' scent shifted from something sweet and tempting to bitter and fearful, it was clear he was thinking along the lines of everyone else, that Derek had every intention of hurting him for invading their space.

Shit.

Shame curled in Derek's belly, a hot ball of guilt branding him from the inside out as his face fell and his growls cut off completely. The thought of hurting Stiles in any way twisting something inside his chest, caused an ache he didn't wanna look too closely at. It was bad enough he was feeling like shit for scaring the guy, for grabbing him and latching on the way he did. He didn't wanna further add to the self- loathing spiral he seemed to be sliding down.

With wide eyes and cautious movements, he turned his head to check the male he still had pinned to the wall, red leaving his vision and allowing him to get a good look. Pale skin was flushed with crimson, breath moving harsh and rapid in and out a slightly upturned nose, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Dark eyes were rimmed with gold, pupils blown wide, and judging by the too quick heartbeat and the bitter scent of fear, Derek knew he appeared that way out of terror, not arousal.

Double shit.

Derek quickly released his grip on Stiles, shoving himself away and inadvertently pushing the younger male against the wall again. Without saying a word, without looking at anyone else in the room, he turned and ran up the stairs towards the attic, hoping to clear his nose and figure out what the fuck had just happened.


	3. Dinner

_**A/N:** Totally didn't mean to go this long before updating, I swear. I just got busy with spring cleaning, and then last week, my dog was put to sleep in a spur of the moment decision and it just totally devastated me 'cause he was pretty much my best friend and my shadow. So, sorry about the delay of this being posted. My bad._

Don't think I need to put any warnings or cover my ass here. Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (kitstiles) and/or Twitter (CharWright5) to see me Stilinski-type flail over supernatural creatures, superheroes, a made for TV boy band, baseball, and whatever else has caught my flighty attention span that week. Oh, and you can also witness my mad ranting and yelling over my writing—which will probably get more hysterical and deranged soon since I'm dumb enough to think I can handle three Big Bangs during one summer despite the multiple anxiety attacks I had over one last year, plus the fics I'm already working on and posting. I also tend to post sneak peeks and snippets of whatever I'm working on at that moment sooo...yeah.

Lemme know whatcha think of the chapter. Reviews to an author are like the moon to a werewolf: they power us, or some cheesy crap like that, I dunno, I'm tired.

Enjoy the update guys!

* * *

Derek paced the length of the attic, hand tugging his black hair as he struggled to clear his head and make sense of what had just happened. His claws and fangs had retracted, making him feel semi-normal once again, but he still felt shaken to his very core.

And over a fucking _scent_.

He went over every second that had passed between the time he opened the door to when Scott had tried to call him off. He agonized over every detail, from the way Stiles smelled, to the way he'd seemed so into it, to the way his body had gone limp and pliant in Derek's arms, only for it all to have been misinterpreted by the Alpha.

God, he'd fucked up. Stiles hadn't reacted that way because he'd wanted more; it was just his nature. The guy was an Omega, was genetically designed to submit and do whatever it was the Alpha wanted, regardless of their own desires. And Derek had taken full advantage of that, had given into primal instincts to take the Omega down and have his way with him, no matter what.

And even if Stiles _had_ been the slightest bit turned on, it was probably just due to his own instincts of having a mature Alpha's scent in his nose and body pinning him in place. He couldn't help how his body had reacted anymore than Derek could—which was pretty much not at all. Stiles might've thought that going limp and letting the Alpha do whatever would help him out, would lessen the chance of getting hurt—or worse. Derek was well aware of what happened to Omegas when they disobeyed, had heard countless stories, had seen firsthand a coworker of his dad's who'd shown up covered in bruises, arm in a cast, a shrug to the shoulder as she passed it all off as her being dumb and standing up to her Alpha husband. His dad had growled low in his throat; Derek had felt his own vision reddening out. No one should hurt an Omega, especially not for those reasons.

And chances were Stiles had heard all those similar stories, probably more being the sheriff's kid and all, and had allowed his own Omega nature to take over, his yieldingness a survival mechanism against a mature Alpha that could tear him apart in seconds and not think twice.

The thought made Derek shudder and he fought the wave of nausea threatening to drop him to his knees.

His pacing brought him to his bed, mind automatically remembering the Omega's scent—_Stiles'_ scent that still resided in the mattress. As much as Stiles' reactions were most likely nature, Derek's probably were, too. He spent most of his time around other Alphas and Betas, so smelling an Omega like that had just caught him off guard. He didn't think of Stiles that way, didn't want to mark him or claim him or do any of that other shit he'd previously thought of. It was just his Alpha instincts reacting to an Omega scent, nothing too deep or profound.

The thought felt like a lie, but he let that belief go. Anything more than instinctual reactions was too much and would completely fuck up his resolution to not get attached to anything.

But still...

No. No buts. He refused to allow there to be any buts. It was a simple fact that all that happened was biological instincts, just an Alpha reacting to an Omega's scent. It had nothing to do with Stiles himself. And the teenager succumbing to Derek's behavior was his own natural way of behaving and had nothing to do with his own thoughts or feelings. Hell, the guy hadn't even touched Derek back, had remained near frozen, hands pinned to the wall by his sides. He didn't want the Alpha, any more than the Alpha wanted him.

Derek ground the heel of his hand between his pecs, trying to ease the ache that had appeared there out of nowhere, not sure what exactly it meant or why he was feeling it.

He was terrified to think about it further and find out what had caused it.

Ignoring the sensation, he focused elsewhere, hearing the familiar sounds of Melissa's fluffy slippers flip-flip-flipping on the wood floor of the upstairs hallway. The noise was getting louder, meaning she was getting closer, most likely coming to talk to him, give him some sorta lecture, lay into him for his unacceptable behavior.

Because his evening hadn't been fun enough.

The slippers stopped outside his door, followed by a sigh, then a knock. He halfway contemplated pretending not to be there, but decided that was a dumb idea, something Scott would pull. Everyone had heard him slam the attic door shut so it wasn't as though he could act like he'd gone elsewhere. And he couldn't pretend that he didn't hear her knock, didn't know she was standing there on the other side of the door awaiting his response. Werewolf hearing meant he was fully aware of where she was within the house, and she knew that for a fact.

Basically he wasn't about to get away with shit and should really just get the whole thing over with.

Smearing a hand over his face, he grumbled out a rough "c'min" before turning to face the staircase, arms folded over his broad chest. He listened to the sounds of the knock squeaking as it was twisted, the flip-flip-flip of those slippers on the wooden steps, the creak on the fourth one, the groan on the sixth, until he saw the top of Melissa's curly hair appear in the empty space of the floor.

Her anger was a sharp scent in his nose, joined by a faint hint of embarrassment at her eldest son's behavior. Whatever, wasn't his problem. Served her right for allowing an Omega into a house of Alphas.

Fuck. When'd he become such a bigoted asshole?

She climbed the final stairs, turning to take two steps towards him before stopping. Her body language would've told him how upset she was with him if her scent hadn't already done the job, hip cocked out, arms folded over her own chest, lips twisted in an angry grimace as her jaw tensed up. She exhaled sharply through her nose, narrowed dark eyes leveled on him, looking every bit the pissed off maternal unit, something Derek hadn't seen since he'd gotten wasted the year before and crashed at Kate's overnight.

He'd tried to argue that she should actually be pleased he was smart enough to just stay where he was and not attempt to drive home. She didn't seem to agree with that statement and he spent the next month doing all the work around the house and yard during his grounding period.

He had a feeling not being allowed to hang with his friends wasn't gonna be his punishment this time. Mostly because he was already being punished with that after being forced to move across the country. So really, anything she could say or do here was nowhere near as bad as what she'd already put him through.

Derek met her harsh gaze with one of his own, showing he wasn't intimidated, the Alpha in him refusing to back down before anyone, especially a human. And while part of him reasoned that it was his fucking _mother_ and therefore he should quit with the aggression and just submit, his wolf-half was refusing and his human-half was inclined to just go along with it.

"You wanna explain to me what just happened?" she demanded to know, her voice even, low, tone one that a few months ago would've been more terrifying and threatening than her loud yelling.

Funny how shit changed.

He shrugged a shoulder, features flat, eyes hard. The "no" went unsaid, but he knew it was heard by her, if for no other reason than his lack of communication with anyone in more recent times and her ability to tell what he was thinking through pure maternal instincts. Besides, he really didn't fully understand himself. Trying to explain it to someone else—especially a _human_ someone else—was damn near impossible, even if he wanted to.

Melissa pressed her lips into a hard line, nodding, clearly understanding how things were, how their conversation was gonna go. She sighed audibly before speaking, her tone the same calm one as before. "Look, I don't fully understand werewolf dynamics, so I have no clue what the hell was going through your head when you attacked Stiles like that."

Derek didn't have a clue either but he didn't admit it out loud, just kept his features schooled in the poker face he'd arranged them in when she'd appeared in his new bedroom.

"But he's a _friend_, not an enemy," she continued, lecturing her eldest son on relationships and what exactly they were, like he was five and not eighteen. "There was no need to try and rip his throat out. I'm not sure if it's because of what happened with your dad—"

Derek stiffened at that, shoulders tensing, inhaling harshly and holding the air in his lungs. His face cringed into a wince for a brief second before he wiped the expression away, refusing to let her know her words had affected him.

"Or if it's a werewolf thing," she kept going, not seeming to notice his reaction. "Or an Alpha thing or what-have-you, just." She paused, shaking her head as she sighed, seeming to be unable to figure out what exactly she was trying to say, where she'd been going with that thought. "Just behave, be civil, try not to see everyone as a threat."

His answer was a shrug, a brief nod to the head, figuring agreeing to it would get her to drop it and leave. But, as usual, that wasn't how his life was.

"Good," Melissa replied with a sharp nod, still keeping up the "I'm the maternal unit here and what I say goes" body language, still not leaving. "Now, most times kids would be punished for rude behavior by being sent to their room with no dinner. But given your lack of desire to be social, I've decided a more suitable punishment would be to force you to come down and eat with us."

Fuck his life.

Derek's hands clenched into fists where they were squeezed between his torso and his arms, his jaw tensing as he ground his teeth. Being forced to be in Stiles' presence was definitely the worst form of punishment—or was it torture?—that Derek could think of. The Omega's scent was still in his nose, the reminder of his reaction to it buzzing in his brain, an itch he was refusing to scratch. Sitting there as he was made to be social and inhaling that smell with every breath would be too much and he wasn't sure he'd be able to prevent himself from diving across the table and attacking the younger werewolf again.

He wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to prevent it.

Of course he did. He wasn't fucking stupid. His reactions and behavior had hinted at something more, a possessiveness that had overridden every ounce of common sense he'd ever gained over his eighteen years of existence. Possession led to claiming, which led to attachment, which led to that person being ripped away from you without your permission, the whole thing beyond your control. Which led to an aching inside that couldn't be healed, a hole that couldn't be filled, a life that wasn't worth living as the presence of death constantly hung around.

He'd lost his dad. He'd never really had his dad's side of the family. He'd lost his maternal grandfather. He'll eventually lose his mom, his brother, his abuela. He'd lost his friends, his girlfriend, his home, his previous life. No way could he handle losing anyone—or any_thing_—else in any fashion. And the only way he could prevent losing something was to never have it in the first place.

And that included Stiles.

"I don't care if you don't like it," Melissa stated, cutting into his mental tangent and catching his attention. His eyes opened, Derek having no clue when exactly they'd closed, the green orbs taking in her stern expression, the tilt of her eyebrow that dared him to defy her, to argue with her. "That's the whole point. And while you're down there, you can apologize to Stiles. You're just lucky you didn't scare him off with your aggressive Alpha bullshit."

Her words made a light bulb flick on inside his head, an idea forming. Any sort of attachment wouldn't form if Stiles wasn't around, and in order to make Stiles not wanna be around him, he just needed to be a huge dick and freak the kid out enough so that he'd never feel the urge to be in Derek's presence. And without the Omega's scent in his nose, Derek could get his shit together, focus on school and college and getting the fuck outta Beacon Hills.

Really, it was flawless plan, an easy one since he was pretty much a dick to everyone else. Plus his family already thought he had something against Stiles, that he didn't like the kid and wanted him gone. Being rude and aggressive towards him wouldn't seem unusual, wouldn't raise suspicions, wouldn't cause anyone to question his behavior or his motives. It was perfect.

Strategy firmly in the forefront of his mind, Derek rolled his eyes, not finding it all that hard to do. It was his go-to move over the past month and a half, that and cocking an eyebrow in question and disbelief, usually in response to someone actually trying to start a conversation with him.

Ignoring the part of him that was glad Stiles hadn't run off was a little more challenging but he managed nonetheless, focusing more on his desire to _actually_ have the kid leave and never wanna come back.

Or at least not wanna come back when Derek was home.

Melissa narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down, assessing his contentious body language and his obvious refusal to turn his attitude around. Her scent turned salty, a mix of disappointment and longing, a confusion caused by his behavior, most likely her wondering what exactly had happened to her son and what she could do to get him back.

He wanted to tell her it was impossible, that the Derek she knew died in that wreck along with his father, but held back. He was avoiding words at all cost, including ones that could possibly get his mom off his back for good.

Her scent shifted once more, although the desire for things to go back to how they had been stayed with it, now a faint note as she seemed to just accept how their lives were going to be from then on out. With a nod of the head aimed at the stairs, she gave him a low "come on", the command still evident even in the quiet volume of the words. Without uncrossing her arms, she turned and headed to the steps, going down them and assuming he'd follow.

Derek remained where he was, his arms falling to his sides, his jaw grinding. He had zero fucking desire to do as he was told, to follow her and subject himself to his family and their guest, their guest whom he'd attacked and wanted to possess in every form of the word. But trying to get out of it would only result in Melissa being in his shit even more, constantly on his back as she attempted to get the old Derek back, as she endeavored to snap him out of whatever he was going through at that moment.

It wasn't a phase, that he was sure. And one day, she would realize that and back the fuck off.

But until then, he had no choice but to do as he was told and hope she'd see for herself that he wasn't going back to how he had been, that the new Derek was there to stay and she needed to just accept it and move on.

And doing as he was told meant going down and joining everyone for dinner.

Fucking joy.

He breathed in deep, holding the air in his lungs before slowly exhaling through his nose. His eyes flipped to his mattress, remembering the scent that lay beneath the layers of cotton and form, the scent that had come from the Omega currently sitting at Maria's kitchen table. His plan came back to him, strategies forming in his head, and he found his feet moving towards the stairs, having found his motivation to actually join everyone else, despite his desire to hide out in the attic.

No, not hiding. Pussies hid. He was...preserving his sanity and protecting himself from any future pain.

Weak excuse, but he'd take it.

His boot-clad feet were heavy on the wooden floors, each step a dull thump as he headed to the kitchen with weighted steps, making it known that he wasn't happy about how the next hour or so of his life was about to go. Not that the scowl on his face or the angry spice to his scent didn't already give that away, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to add to it, especially given how oblivious Scott could be at times.

Conversation reached Derek's ears as he arrived at the stairs that led to the first floor, Melissa voicing an apology as she pulled her chair out from the table, an explanation that she had no idea what had gotten into her son.

"It's fine," a semi-familiar voice—Stiles, he assumed—replied, his tone easy-going and making it seem as though it really _was_ fine, when the blip in his heartbeat gave away that he was lying, that it wasn't fine or any variation of the word. "After my mom died, I got a li'l bitey and snarly, too." He wrapped the confession up with a childlike growl and Derek had to stop at the bottom of the stairs to roll his eyes.

And also possibly put his shit back together, considering he was now face to face with the front door and the wall he'd pinned the Omega against.

Shit.

Okay, he was obviously gonna have to deal with that sight often, considering it was at the bottom of the stairs, plus he'd be seeing it every time he left the house—assuming he used the front door and not the rear one located in the kitchen. Really, it would be better to handle his first time looking at it while the place was mostly empty and no one could witness any reaction he'd have. Safer that way.

Or he was being a pussy again.

No, it was a safety thing. Definitely safety.

And, in the interest of safety, he completely ignored the door and the wall and the urge to walk over and see if any scents lingered on either, instead turning and scuffing his way into the kitchen.

Conversation died off when he entered, the air thick with tension and the various scents of those seated at the table, their emotional odors making it hard to breathe. There was the anxiety they were all feeling, the worry that Derek would do something again, the fear that this time he'd actually hurt Stiles. There was anger at his reaction, hurt, confusion, a sense of curiosity as to why he'd treated the Omega that way in the first place. There was a feeling of disapproval and genuine dislike about what he'd done and how he'd behaved, but he refused to look into it too much. Instead, he rounded the table, walking behind Maria in order to get to the open seat between Melissa and Scott at the circular piece of furniture.

Putting Stiles almost directly in his line of sight.

Goddammit.

The smart thing to do would be to keep his eyes on his plate, to look anywhere but at the Omega. But, apparently, Derek's brain wasn't quite caught up to the program, meaning it did the absolute worst thing possible. It ordered his eyes to look at Stiles.

Stiles' face had what could only be described as "boyish good looks". Since he hadn't hit maturity as a werewolf yet, it still had a small amount of baby fat on his cheeks, a slight roundness to it. It would all melt away a short time after he turned eighteen, revealing the bone-structure hidden beneath, much like what happened to Derek and every other werewolf out there who came of age, but until then, there was no mistaking that he was still young.

His nose was slightly upturned at the end, a little too wide in the nostrils. His lips were the stereotypical "cupid's bow" one always heard about, the bottom one slightly too full to match the top. His eyes were a warm honey hue, framed by lashes that were too curly for a male to have. His brown hair was styled in messy tufts that stuck up in various directions, although it was hard to tell if it was done that way on purpose or if he'd just woken up that way. His pale skin had a smattering of random moles in various sizes, all scattered over his cheeks, forehead, and neck.

Loose flannel covered his frame so it was hard to tell exactly what kind of shape he was in, but the set of his shoulders and the forearms that were visible thanks to rolled up sleeves gave the impression of a more lean build. The same pale skin/moles combination covered his arms, and his hands were thin, fingers long but strong, good size for someone his age and gender.

Derek found himself looking the teenager over, eyes narrow and analytical, trying to take in as much detail in as short a time as possible, lest he be caught. He managed one glance over before he came across the Omega's hands, fingers drumming the table in a fit of nervous energy, thumbs rubbing the edge of the plate before him.

The plate with the chip in it.

His _dad's_ plate.

The low rumble of a growl made its way out of his throat before he realized it'd been formed, before he knew he'd react that way. He felt his lip curl slightly, the hint of fang peeking out underneath, his wolf raising its hackles. _No one_ was to use that plate. It didn't matter that his father wasn't around to eat off it anymore. It was still his and it was to stay that way for the rest of that plate's existence. For someone else to use it was to insult his dad's memory, to act like he hadn't mattered or that his habits had been forgotten already.

Besides, the wolf in him recognized that plate as his dad's property, therefore his territory, and this teenager was encroaching in on someone else's space, the ultimate offense in wolf culture.

Basically, the Omega was a little shit and needed to learn his place, especially at a table of Alphas, and especially when said property once belonged to an Alpha.

Brown eyes went wide across from him, the sharp spice of fear joining the other scents in the room. Aggravation soon joined in, aggression, a fierce need to protect the person who was being threatened. Whatever. Derek didn't give a fuck how anyone else felt about the situation. All that mattered was that the Omega figured out his own fuck up and make things right.

By leaving, for starters.

"Derek." Melissa's voice was the same calm, even tone she'd used on him before, the threat implied within the two syllables.

The growls immediately cut off, his wolf recognizing her as the authority figure she was, his surrogate Alpha in the absence of his father, despite the fact that she was human. He watched the red leave his vision, the true tones and hues of things returning, his fangs retracting inside his mouth. Removing his claws from the wooden table—which he wasn't aware had even happened—took a bit more work and care, but he managed it nonetheless, pressing his palms flat on the table afterward. His body still remained tense, muscles bunched up, trembling under the pressure of holding himself in place. Fuck only knew what would happen if he were to relax and let his body do what it wanted.

An exacerbated sigh came from his left but he ignored it, choosing instead to give Stiles one last glare before flicking his eyes down to the chip in the plate, then the dish in front of himself.

"Well," Maria began, clapping her hands together in an attempt to get everyone's attention. "That's one way to start dinner."

Derek rolled his eyes, pretending that he had no idea Scott was glaring at him, had been glaring since he'd sat down. Not his problem if the younger werewolf had some sorta issue with the elder.

"Yeah. Most families say 'grace', but hey, to each their own," Stiles jokingly added in an attempt to lighten the mood. His voice was smooth as it floated over to Derek, ghosting over his skin and hitting something deep inside that he pretended he didn't notice.

The Alpha curled his fingers into fists on the table, jaw clenching to bite back any growls or snarls or whatever noise was building up inside his throat that was desperate to escape. His plan to go along with Melissa's wishes so she'd get off his back was still in effect, the knowledge of which was the only thing keeping him silent.

But his actions didn't go unnoticed, four sets of dark eyes flicking to his fists, the tense discomfort of before ratcheting up a notch as everyone waited for the eldest male to make a move.

He slid his hands under the table, out of everyone's view, hoping like hell they'd all quit staring at him like a feral animal at a zoo.

Mostly because he wasn't too sure that wasn't what he was. At least at that moment.

Maria asked Scott and Stiles how they met, effectively changing the subject. And as the Omega excitedly recounted the tale—complete with over-the-top hand gestures and the occasional add-in by Scott—so began the most awkward dinner Derek had ever had.

* * *

Derek was on dish duty for a month. He didn't mind all that much, considering it was a solo activity and that Scott and Stiles had disappeared to the Stilinski residence in order to play video games. Melissa had stated that it was fine, that Scott was just next door and she trusted him to be safe at a near stranger's house, but Derek knew it was just an excuse to politely get Stiles out her own home in order to get her elder son back on his decent behavior.

The clean-up job was done on autopilot, his hands moving on their own to clear off the table, put everything away, wash and rinse dishes. The entire thing had gone smoothly, efficiently, without a single hiccup. The rhythmic motion of his hands on the dishes allowed his head to clear from everything that happened that evening. The running of the water allowed him to block out the low din of conversation taking place between Melissa and Maria in the living room, the TV show they were pretending to watch. The menial task proved to be just the sort of thing he needed in order to calm frayed nerves and sooth ruffled fur.

Until he got to the plate with the chip on it.

His eyes narrowed, red leaking into his vision as he glared at the plate he held between both hands. Earlier thoughts of how no one should be able to use it came back, more intense than ever now, considering who had used it moments before. And it would be so easy to guarantee it would never be used again, to just exert a little pressure and—

The plate cracked into several uneven pieces in his hands, most of it dropping down into the sink full of dirty, bubbly water. A small smirk played on his lips, dimple half-forming in his cheek, a small sense of satisfaction washing over him.

He heard Melissa and Maria run through, smelled their panic and confusion, as he fished the pieces out the sink with his bare hands and disposed of them in the garbage can in the cabinet beneath the sink.

"What the hell was that?" the younger female demanded to know, worry bleeding into his words, and he could practically envision her wide dark eyes and harried expression.

Derek calmly closed the cabinet door before pulling the plug, allowing the water to drain from the sink. Drying his hands, he turned to face the two females, dishes now done and drying in the rack. "That was Dad's plate," he stated matter-of-factly, tone even, low, relaxed, as though he hadn't just smashed a plate between his hands.

He tossed the towel onto the counter, ignoring the wide eyes of both women, refusing to acknowledge any sighs or changes in scents. Task done, he exited the kitchen, passing between the two of them with unhurried steps, heading to his new room in the attic to begin a night of being left the fuck alone.

He deserved it after all the shit he'd been put through that evening.


	4. Run

_**A/N: **I'm totally ignoring what happened in last night's "Teen Wolf", if for no other reason than thinking about it makes me start crying again. I literally just bawled for half an hour straight after it happened. I know it was a fictional character who died, but after spending three/four years with these guys, they're almost like friends and it feels like a friend has been taken away from all of us, not to mention the sympathy and hurt I feel for every other character on the show and how that loss will affect them._

_Moving on...not really much to say about this chapter I don't think...Oh, GayWolfy on AO3 suggested that I add "grief" to my warnings, which I did, since it might be triggering in a way to some. If anyone thinks that anything else should be added, feel free to let me know._

_Enjoy the chapter and let me know whatcha think of it. I'm gonna go curl up with my stuffed wolf and cry some more. Between "Teen Wolf" and now the near end of "Being Human", Mondays are just full of supernatural related pain. Not sure I can handle much more of it..._

* * *

Derek's body had become accustomed to waking up at 5:30. It was a habit really, one instilled by his dad when he was about ten. Wake up early, go for a long run around the neighborhood and work off excess energy to leave him calm and level for the rest of the day. He hadn't really understood it until he'd skipped a run when he was eleven, taking advantage of his dad being out of town and not waking up him up before the sun. He'd spent the entire school day keyed up, anxious, his wolf pacing around and restless. He'd never felt so trapped in his life as he did during those seven hours, even feeling unsatisfied after running around during recess and a rigorous game of dodgeball during gym. It wasn't until he got home and dragged Scott out to run with him that he felt at peace, finally collapsing on the couch as the younger McHale did the same on the loveseat, both snoozing until dinner.

Since then, he'd set his alarm and had gone out every day at 5:30 for a run around the neighborhood with his dad. Scott joined them when Derek turned twelve, never seeming as into it as the other two McHale men. He'd put up with it during lacrosse season, understanding the need to stay in shape and keep his stamina levels up for playing, but would make it known how not stoked he was on the early exercise with countless grumbles and the bitter scent of aggravation during the rest of the year.

Derek loved it. He loved the freedom, the mindlessness of it, the way it was as close to being a wolf as possible while still remaining human. It made him pity his four-legged cousins trapped in zoos and nature preserves, knowing there was no way they could fully feel the same sense of knowing that if he wanted, he could just keep running forever and there'd be nothing to stop him.

He kept the habit up after his dad died, but didn't ask Scott to join in. He was sure the younger Alpha appreciated the extra hour or so of sleep, even if he didn't say it, and Derek appreciated the solitude, the ability to be alone with his thoughts or to just not think at all, as he was apt to do. On his runs, he was by himself, the way he wanted to be, allowing him to pretend that everything was okay and that his family hadn't been ripped apart and that things at his house were the way they had been.

Allowing him to be in denial.

After seven years of the early wake-ups and the long runs, his body had gotten used to it, his internal clock set to rouse him at 5:30 on the dot. Which was a really awesome thing on the off-chance a power outage happened in the night and screwed up his actual alarm, or the even rarer instance when he forgot to flip the thing on in the first place.

It wasn't so great when he moved to California and was now three hours behind in time. Meaning his body was wide awake and alert at 2:30 AM.

And there was no way he was getting back to sleep.

He tossed and turned on the mattress, flopping onto his back, his side, his back again, his other side. The sheet had gotten tangled in his legs, the fitted one wrinkled and pulled up at a corner. His pillows had flattened out under his head, pillowcases bunched beneath his cheek, the sensation irritating but bearable.

The scent still lingering in the mattress, however, wasn't.

Derek flopped onto his back, starfishing across the mattress, eyes staring at the exposed beam running parallel to his body as it bisected the ceiling. He was beyond awake, unable to keep his eyes shut and his brain silent long enough to drift back to sleep, despite the exhaustion that burned behind his orbs. He'd run on less sleep before, had pulled all-nighters cramming for his SATs and ACTs, partying with teammates, fucking Kate into her mattress when her parents were out of town visiting family she couldn't stand. But after everything he'd gone through that day, from the move to the Omega that he was pretending didn't exist, he was more tired than he could remember and wanted nothing more than to just fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He absently wondered if Maria had any alcohol in her house.

He then figured it wouldn't matter, since chances were she didn't have any wolfsbane to lace it with and therefore rendered him unable to get drunk and pass out, defeating the purpose.

Shit.

Kicking the sheet back, Derek sat up, smearing a hand roughly over his face. The attic felt stuffy, the air thick with the mingled scents of old things and clean sheets, of musky objects and new mattress. He felt like he was choking, weighed down by the combination of..._everything_, his chest tight. An overwhelming need to get out had his skin tingling and his mind buzzing, a low hum at the back of his head that he couldn't ignore, and all he could think about was how easy it would be to just grab clothes and _go._

He gave in to the urge, shooting up to his feet and striding over to the bureau he'd been given. It didn't take long for him to pull on a pair of mesh basketball shorts and sleeveless Queens Alpha-Beta Lycanthrope Academy tee, his socks and sneakers more work but barely slowing him down.

It was just after three when he left the attic and crept out the house, his wolf-half subconsciously listening for three steady heartbeats, the human-half ignoring the creak of Scott's mattress as he partially woke up due to Derek's movements.

Derek didn't stop until he was outside, the door closed behind him and feet on the sidewalk leading to the driveway. The air outside was lighter, more breathable, a barely there humidity that made the night pleasant. He inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs and feeling the tightness in his chest loosen a smidgen. He smelled the warmth of a late summer night, the crisp scent of the lawn that had been mowed earlier, the earthy notes of dirt dampened by an overused sprinkler system.

The Omega that he'd been taunted with earlier in the evening.

Exhaling sharply, Derek scented the air, catching the smell of Stiles, the trail he'd left behind going to and from his home next door. His head turned, eyes focusing on the brick house to the left, windows dark and bodies still. Two heartbeats pumped steadily, a faint snore coming from an upstairs room, a creak sounding out as the house settled. Two cars sat in the driveway, an old light blue Jeep and a black SUV with '_SHERIFF_' emblazoned along the side. He wondered briefly about a second parental figure, only to remember that none had been mentioned. Maria had spoken of "the sheriff and his son". Scott had commented about how Stiles was good to talk to since he'd lost his mom. Derek hadn't cared when either had said those things and found himself trying to figure out if they had mentioned what exactly had happened to the female.

Only to cut that thought off with a mental slap. The less he knew about Stiles and his life, the better. It was hard enough trying to resist the allure of the Omega's scent; he didn't need the added complication of actually knowing the guy and finding commonalities or differences, things like that.

Something scratched at Derek's bare shins and he looked down to find himself caught in a foot-tall shrub that separated the two properties. He'd begun walking over to the house next door without even realizing it, his nose clinging onto the scent and guiding his movements.

Terrific.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers into his lids, careful not to cut himself with claws that had extended on their own. Again. Unbelievable. He'd had a tight hold on his wolf-half, was able to remain in control and rein in the animal when it tried to take over. Sure, there'd been slip-ups when he'd first turned eighteen, but that was natural, and it hadn't taken him long to learn how to keep a firm grip on his humanity. Now he'd wolfed out three times in one day, all without his realization.

Really though, it made sense. His entire world had been flipped on its head—twice—within a couple months and he was feeling completely out of control about everything. And being forced to move across the country left him ungrounded, his anchor unable to do its job, the waters of his life too rough to allow it to gain a hold of anything. He was lost in a stormy sea and it was only natural for him to allow his animal half to take over and just give in to only dealing with baser instincts and problems, rather than all the human bullshit he was currently suffering through.

Opening his eyes, Derek carefully stepped out of the shrub, watching pink and white scratches on his shins heal themselves up between one heartbeat and the next. He briefly considered wolfing out for his run, only to shove that thought aside. Other than the last two full moons, he hadn't been a full wolf since his dad's death, except the day Melissa had announced their move. And as satisfying as it would've been to give in to the mindlessness of running as an animal, he refused to allow himself that pleasure, instead turning and heading down to the road, running in the direction opposite the house belonging to the sheriff and his Omega son.

And the Omega's scent.

Despite not being familiar with the neighborhood, Derek had a feeling it wouldn't be big enough for him to run out everything he was feeling.

* * *

Two hours later and Derek felt like he had the neighborhood memorized.

Which was good, because he was fairly certain he was gonna fall down.

His legs burned, muscles aching with fatigue as he walked the final lap, cooling himself down. His skin was shining with sweat, shirt and shorts both soaked, and his throat felt raw with thirst and panting. But it was exactly what he'd wanted, needed, the exhaustion that came only from physical exertion, from pushing the limits of what his preternatural body was capable of. And as his feet slapped against the tarred road, he thought about the shower he was about to have, followed by collapsing onto his bed and hopefully getting an hour or two of shut eye.

He'd spent the past couple hours running countless mile-long laps around the neighborhood, an absent thought flashing through his head about how glad he was that it was too early for anyone to notice the unshaven man running past their house multiple times. But it was nice to have the mindless monotony of running, of being able to zone out and focus on solely what he wanted to focus on. He listened to the sounds of his feet pounding against the road, his harsh breathing sawing in and out through his mouth, the swish of his mesh shorts rubbing together as his legs moved. He heard the familiar nocturnal activity of a suburban neighborhood: a raccoon digging through a trashcan, an owl hooting in a tree, rodents scurrying for safety, crickets chirping in the grass.

He'd been so focused on his hearing that it took him three laps to realize that he'd fallen into the habit of slowing down in front of the sheriff's house—of _Stiles'_ house—scenting the air in the hopes of catching a whiff of the Omega. He shook his head to clear it, eyes trained on the pavement below his feet, forcing himself to snap out of it, to quit acting like a hormonal idiot. He was an Alpha. He was better than that.

On the fourth lap, he sped up before reaching the Stilinski residence.

He kept up the habit throughout the remainder of his run.

Until his final cool down circuit when he'd taken to walking.

The house in question was coming up on his right, his eyes immediately drawn to it. The windows were just as dark as before, the blinds just as still, nothing happening within the building itself. Yet Derek still found himself unable to tear his gaze away, unable to do anything but stare at it as he meandered closer, hands on his hips.

He cursed silently to himself, huffing out a laugh of disbelief through a burning throat as he panted through parted lips. Unbelievable. He'd spent the past two hours trying to forget everything that seemed to be going wrong for him in his life, only for it all to come racing back at the sight of brick and mortar.

He felt like punching a hole in the side of the house.

Not that it was the house's fault really, just the teenager sleeping within. Not that _everything_ was Stiles' fault, but it was easy to place the blame on him. For making Derek's nose trail scents he didn't want it to. For making his vision redden and his mind cloud. For making him lose control of his wolf, the one thing he still felt like he had a hold of after everything else had been ripped from him.

Asshole.

Derek's brows fell into a scowl, his feet slowing to a stop by the path that led to the Stilinskis' front porch. He found his body turning to face it, eyes flicking from spot to spot, window to window, searching for something his mind wasn't aware of.

Until it was.

Shit, he was looking for Stiles.

Smearing a hand over his face, Derek fought with his instincts to stalk up to the porch, barge his way in, and head straight for the Omega, instead forcing himself to turn away. Jaw set and eyes narrowed, he jogged his way to Maria's house, not stopping until he was inside and the front door was locked. As quickly and as silently as he could, he stalked straight to the kitchen, chugging down a bottle of water before making his way to the bathroom. He turned the water as hot as possible, showering everything away: the sweat, the anger he felt at himself and at Stiles, the hormones that made him want nothing more than to strip the Omega bare and fuck him until they were both raw and sore, only to do it all over again after their werewolf healing fixed them right up.

The fuck was his life anymore?

Derek scrubbed until his skin felt as raw as his lungs and throat had, until he was a bright red all over and he finally felt something other than a driving urge to force his way into the house next door. Flipping the water off, he stumbled out the shower, catching himself on the counter, his legs finally starting to give out on him. He dried off with quick, rough motions, wrapping the towel around his waist and mentally cursing himself for not grabbing clean clothes. A quick listen told him the other three occupants of the house were all still sound asleep, allowing him to avoid any awkward run-ins out in the hall.

Sweaty clothes gathered up, he padded his way out the bathroom, down the hall, and up the attic stairs to his room. Soon, he found himself in a clean pair of boxer-briefs and flopped down onto his stomach on the bed, head between the pillows and face buried in the mattress.

He tried not to search out the Omega's scent and failed, the sweet notes teasing his nose and tempting his wolf.

Derek fell asleep soon after, dreaming of that scent, accompanied by plush lips and mole covered pale skin.

* * *

Derek woke up still on his stomach, pillows shoved onto the floor, face smooshed into the mattress with his head against the wall, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle.

And that scent in his nose.

He shot up to a kneeling position in a literal heartbeat, eyes wide, air rushing through his nose and into his lungs. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the spot on the mattress he'd previously been smashed into, telling himself he wasn't glaring at an inanimate object or getting pissed at a smell, just that he was squinting against the sun streaming in through the window above his bed.

He was only marginally successful.

Smearing a hand over his face, he forced his brain to get with it, rising up fully on his knees before climbing off the bed. He turned his back on his mattress as though that would do anything, as though it would block the scent from doing anything to him. Fucking pathetic really. It wasn't like a smell had all that much control over him, like it could actually force him into doing something he didn't want to.

He had a brief flash of memory from the night before, of grabbing and pinning Stiles against the wall, of scenting him and grinding against him, of growling both in pleasure then in possession.

Okay, maybe it could, but that was a one time thing and was never gonna happen again.

He was gonna make sure of it.

Barefoot, Derek padded over to his bureau, pulling a random gray tee out one drawer before throwing it over his head. He completed the look with the jeans he wore the day before, figuring they weren't too stained, deciding they didn't smell too bad. Finger-combing his hair, he made the black locks spike up the way he preferred before shuffling his way to the stairs.

He'd picked up the sounds of movement in other rooms below him, of pans being scraped over the stove top, of bacon sizzling and spoons stirring, of friendly chatter and amused laughter. Clearly, the other residents of the house were up and about and making breakfast and as loathe as he was to interact and most likely be forced to discuss his behavior the night before, he was hungry and eating sounded like a good idea.

Moving soundlessly, he made his way down the attic stairs, opening the door and stepping out into the hall. The smells of breakfast hit him, along with the scents of those who resided in the house with him. He could hear the din of conversation as he walked down the hall, hear Scott rambling about some video game and was it cool if he went to Stiles' place to finish up their game. Derek pretended that his heart didn't skip a beat at the mention of the Omega's name, that his chest didn't get tight and his wolf didn't raise its hackles in a possessive move. It was a lot easier to do when he didn't have the younger male's scent in his nose distracting him to no end.

He took the stairs at a near jog, ignoring the door and the wall next to it, focusing instead on the beige carpet, the fluffy feel of it beneath his bare feet. He remembered making carpet angels with Scott in the living room, the way the rug would get dark if rubbed a certain way. Derek's angel always turned out bigger, a fact that made the younger McHale pout, until the elder ruffed his hair and he got agitated at that instead.

Everything really was much simpler back then. Their dad was still around, calling the two of them to order, telling Derek to quit picking on his little brother and Derek whining that Scott was just being a cry-wolf. In those days, neither of them would realize just how dramatically their lives would change, that one day their dad wouldn't be around to chastise them, to teach them, to remind Derek that Scott was younger and he needed to protect him, not mess with him. Their dad would be pissed if he knew how shit had turned out, if he knew that Derek and Scott barely spoke anymore and when they did, it was in snippy tones and with angry words. Gone were the days of hero worship and playful banter. Their relationship was no longer one of a carefree kind of annoyance that came from having a younger brother constantly plastered at your side, copying your every move because he thought you were just that cool. It was now one of a genuine annoyance and a belief that if something were to happen to the other, they'd be okay with it because the asshole deserved it.

Yeah, their dad wouldn't stand for that shit at all and would verbally ream them with growls and snarls until he was satisfied they'd gotten over their bullshit.

Then again, if their dad was still around, their relationship wouldn't be that way. Derek would still be his old self, the older brother who enjoyed hanging with the younger one, teaching him, playfully picking on him, the two thick as thieves as they had been.

But that clearly wasn't meant to be. Shit happened for a reason, that was his dad's belief. Derek just hadn't figured out the reason for his father's untimely death yet.

He entered the kitchen to hear Melissa reminding Scott that the moving truck would be there sometime around noon and that he needed to help, earning her an enthusiastic grin and nod in response. Clearly the younger Alpha had gotten his way.

Again.

Derek shuffled over to the coffee maker, grabbing a random mug out the cabinet above and filling it with the caffeinated drink. He was gonna need the ass-kicking it could provide—and a lot of it. Really, he should just set up some sorta IV and mainline the shit straight into his system. Despite the couple extra hours of sleep he'd gotten after his run, he still felt exhausted. Mentally exhausted anyway. His body was back to being ready to run another ten miles or so, but his mind was just not willing to deal with anything, demanding he get back in bed and snooze.

Not that he'd be able to really. His body was well-aware that it was past nine, that it was time to be awake, and wasn't about to let anything shut down for any reason.

Fucking fun.

"You're up late," Melissa commented from her position by the stove, a plate in hand as she scooped bacon onto it.

Derek stirred sugar into his coffee, shrugging as he took a sip to taste test it, satisfied. He knew he was pretty much always the first one up—at least since his dad had died—and that for him to be the last one to arrive in the kitchen was a strange occurrence. He just didn't feel like explaining his restless night or his _way_ early morning run.

"He was up at three," Scott commented, a slight bitter edge to his words.

The elder Alpha turned and glared, an eyebrow cocked in a silent demand to know where the fuck he got off sharing information about a life that wasn't his own.

The look was ignored as the younger kept talking, setting cutlery at each setting on the table. Only four this time. Thank fuck. "Left the house and didn't get back 'til nearly five."

Derek both heard and felt two sets of inquisitive female eyes locking onto him, Melissa the one to comment with a low "oh?" He held the glare at Scott before turning to her, seeing firsthand the questioning tilt of her eyebrows, the curious twist of her lips.

"And what exactly were you up to at three in the morning, Derek?"

He resented the question, the way she was treating him like a little kid who needed a curfew and permission to leave and to check in every five minutes. He was legally an adult, not to mention a fully matured werewolf. If he wanted to fucking leave at three in the morning, he could and would.

But the weight of Melissa's stare—along with that of Maria's and now Scott's—had him buckling under and he knew there was no way he'd be able to get away with a shrug and a head shake. She'd badger and prod and create theories of her own until he finally snapped and barked out an answer, raising her anger level to an unnecessary point. Unfortunately for him, it was best to just skip all that shit and cut right to the part where he answer.

"Running," he stated flatly, stepping over to his chair and lowering himself onto it, taking another drink of his coffee before putting it on the table.

"At three in the morning?" she questioned dubiously, placing the plate of bacon in the middle of the table.

This time he did shrug, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "Couldn't sleep."

"You run by Stiles' house?" Scott asked, sitting across from him, eyes narrowed. His body language was tense, muscle in his uneven jaw ticking, clearly ready to attack his elder brother should he dare say something bad about his best friend.

Derek rolled his eyes, both at the younger male's ridiculous attitude and the stupidity of his question. "He lives right next door," he reminded him, voice gruff with annoyance. "Trust me, if I could've avoided it, I would've."

Scott snorted, rolling his own dark eyes and shaking his head in disbelief, turning away from the elder Alpha. Derek refused to acknowledge his reaction, the way his scent shifted to something bitter, the annoyance clear in smell and facial expression. Instead, he lifted his mug, inhaling a huge waft of coffee, knowing the beans could help clear other scents from his nose. That, plus it just smelled fucking good.

Maria made her way to the table, shaky hands placing a large bowl of scrambled eggs next to the plate of bacon. A plate of toast soon joined it and the two females seated themselves, the elder giving the order to dig in. Derek helped himself, purposely avoiding any curious and/or annoyed gazes that went his way, focusing solely on the task of eating.

It was a whole lot easier than thinking about his earlier run, why it'd been necessary, and the aggravating moments that had taken place during it. And it sure as hell beat dealing with Scott's own irritation at the elder Alpha and his attitude towards the Omega next door.

The Omega who'd left his scent on one of the chairs at the very table Derek was seated at.

Seemed like avoiding all things Stiles was gonna be harder than he'd originally thought it'd be.

* * *

Scott left as soon as he finished breakfast. Maria and Melissa lingered at the table, enjoying a second cup of coffee each and chatting, as Derek washed the dishes before disappearing to his room. He contemplated going on another run, if for no other reason than it was something to do, but didn't wanna deal with the questions it would raise. So instead, he flopped onto his back on the bed, rereading the book he'd tried to enjoy on the airplane.

The moving truck showed up a little after noon, just like Melissa had said it would. Derek slipped on his boots and made it outside as the back door of the vehicle was lifted up.

And the front door of the house to the left opened.

Derek tried to ignore the way his inner-wolf raised its head in interest, the way it began pacing about, whining. He tried to ignore the way his own body tensed up, the tingle he felt all over, the tightening in his chest. He tried to ignore the scent that wafted his way, the intoxicating combination of sugar, orange, and pine, along with that same laundry-detergent-flannel-denim-hair-gel overlay. He tried to ignore the way the scent was getting closer, the excited rush of words as the owner of the smell spoke, the sounds of sneakers crushing a perfectly manicured lawn as two males walked over.

He tried to ignore the fact that Stiles was moments from being within arms reach once more and that it would be more than easy to just grab the guy and run off with him.

Shit.

He clenched his teeth together, breathing through his mouth to reduce the risk of him inhaling any more of that scent and doing something stupid. Like having anything to do with Stiles.

Muscles tense, he stomped over to the back of the truck, grabbing two stacked boxes and turning to take them inside. Only to come face-to-face with Stiles. Because that's how his life was these days, a constant punishment, pushing him beyond his limits and testing his hold on...pretty much everything really. And now was another one of those punishing tests and he was seconds away from failing. Again.

Stiles came to a stop in front of him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, easy-going smile on his face. His body language was loose, relaxed, and if he harbored any ill feelings or anger about the first time they'd been face to face, he didn't show it. His scent might've told a different story—the _true_ story—but Derek wasn't chancing finding that out.

Hell, just standing around was chancing things.

His grip tightened on the box he was carrying, holding his breath in his lungs, his entire body tensed up. It was just like at dinner the night before, when he was too afraid of relaxing in case his wolf decided to take shit over and make a move for him, a move he didn't wanna make in the first place. He bit back a growl—albeit he had no idea _why_ he felt like growling, but figured the fact that he wanted to make the noise in the first place wasn't a good thing—barely able to keep his sight from reddening out.

But the Omega before him didn't seem put off by any of this, didn't seem afraid or nervous or worried. He kept up the same casual demeanor, the same easy going nature, simply taking his hand out his pocket and waving.

"'Sup, Big Guy?"

Yeah, that shit needed to not happen.

Stiles' voice ghosted over Derek's skin, hitting right in the core of him, and without a second's hesitation, the Alpha turned and stormed his way up the lawn and into the house, not stopping until he was in the kitchen.

He dropped the boxes on the table, vaguely aware of objects inside rattling, not sparing a second's thought to whether anything was breakable or if he'd even put them in the right room. All he could think about was getting control, gathering himself enough so that he could deal with everything that was happening, could deal with Stiles' scent and voice and _existence_ and not feel like he was gonna wolf out and do something he'd regret later on.

Exhaling harshly, Derek shoved the heels of his hands in his eyes, breathing heavy as he willed himself to calm down. He counted down from ten, then twenty, then fifty, still feeling his body tremble, still feeling completely on edge. Voices drifted inside the house, Scott and Stiles, the two heading upstairs judging by the sounds of their footsteps. Derek dropped his hands from his face, gripping the back of the chair and digging his claws in, holding himself there.

Really, the entire fucking thing was stupid. He was a fucking Alpha, one that was, once again, letting some stupid fucking smell affect him. He could handle this, was better than this. He just had to hold his breath around the Omega, make sure he carried his own boxes and didn't let any unwanted scents transfer onto his things. Easy.

Taking another deep calming breath, Derek mentally pulled his shit together and released his grip on the chair, absently aware that he'd clawed the wood and would most likely get chewed out for it later. Whatever. He'd deal with that problem if and when it happened. He already had enough on his metaphorical plate at the moment.

His eyes shot to the cabinet where he knew the actual plates were held, a small satisfaction tingling the back of his head at the memory of him smashing his dad's plate. A little messed up, but if it meant one last thing in the house didn't have the Omega's scent on it, then it was fine.

Tilting his head down, he soon realized he'd scratched the chair Stiles had used the night before.

Of fucking course.

Shoving himself away, Derek turned and left the kitchen, his muscles still tense and his steps still heavy as he made his way out the house and to the truck. He just needed to get his own shit, get it in his room, and avoid Scott and Stiles at all costs.

Judging by the dark glare the younger Alpha leveled at the elder as he stepped onto the front porch, the last part wasn't gonna be a problem at all.

* * *

It only took about twenty minutes for them to unload the truck. Derek handled his own boxes, as well as some of the heavier ones. The other two males took care of Scott's things and helped Melissa with her's. Maria's arthritis prevented her from doing much of anything beyond directing the movers where to put boxes and making lunch for everyone. By the time the truck pulled away, five plates of sandwiches and chips sat at the table, glass of lemonade stationed at each setting.

Derek took his upstairs. He'd had enough of family meals and trying to keep his wolf in control around the Omega who'd been helping them out. He needed a reprieve from remaining tensed up and constantly having to hold his breath.

No one argued with him. Melissa didn't insist that he stay and join them. Probably because he'd grabbed his plate after Maria had inquired about the state of her chair and he'd just shrugged, facial features betraying nothing.

Lunch eaten, he set about unpacking his things, putting clothes in the drawers, setting up his laptop and school supplies on his desk, tossing his dirty laundry in the folding mesh hamper he placed next to his desk. Shoes were lined up next to his drawers, trash can under the desk, spare lamp on top, alarm clock situated on the nightstand before being plugged in and set to the correct time. The place still looked completely impersonal and utilitarian, but it was how he wanted it, knowing he wouldn't be there for long.

He hoped anyway.

The last box contained his books and he stood there frowning at it, wondering where exactly to put them. He hadn't been given any shelves for them and a quick scan of the other side of the attic informed him that none were over there either. Maria had mentioned there being more furniture in the basement and he contemplated going down to see for himself when a knock sounded on his door.

His frown turned into a glare as he turned his head towards the opening where the stairs lay, wondering who the fuck was bothering him this time. He assumed it was Melissa coming to chew him out over Maria's chair and to give him another lecture about respecting other people's property and to watch what his claws were doing. Or maybe a reaming about being an anti-social dick. Or another tirade about what an asshole he was being to Stiles.

He smeared a hand over his face, feeling his whiskers rasp against his palms, wishing he could wipe away all thoughts of the Omega as easily as wiping his hand down his face.

Focusing more on his iPod and trying to decide what he wanted to listen to next, he barked out a gruff "c'min" to whoever had knocked, realizing too late what a terrible fucking idea it was.

The door swung open, the scent immediately making its way to Derek's nose. He felt his entire being tingle once more, head jerking up and focusing on the drawers across the bed from him and not the person beginning their ascent into the attic. Stiles.

The Omega's scent teased him, getting stronger and more potent with each step up the creaking stairs. Derek dropped his iPod on the bed before he smashed it in his hand, fingers curling into fists, the bite of his claws stinging his palms. He felt his chest rumbling with a growl and he cut the noise off, gritting his jaw and tensing his muscles to keep himself in place.

"Hey."

Fuck.

Derek closed his eyes against the voice, breathing in a huge gulp of air to gain control of himself. Huge mistake. All it did was give him a lungful of Stiles' scent and cause his wolf to start clawing and whining, demanding that Derek get over there and claim, to mingle their scents, to rub himself all over the Omega so no one could ever smell him without getting a whiff of the Alpha with it.

Not gonna happen.

Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, fingers drumming against cardboard as he shifted from foot to foot. Derek finally opened his eyes—albeit it not all the way, but enough to actually _see_ what was going on—leveling his hard gaze at the younger male.

The Omega stood there with the same easy going smirk as before, box in hand, eyebrows bobbing up in a "hey, how ya doin'?" motion. If he had any inclination that he was a lowly Omega in the den of a mature Alpha, he didn't show it, still seeming as carefree as ever.

Idiot.

Derek fully turned to face him, folding his arms over his chest in a move to intimidate, as well as keep himself from grabbing the Omega and having his way with him until they were both covered in sweat, come, and each others scents. "What do you want?" he questioned on a growl, still glaring, thankful his vision was still normal and not covered by a mask of red.

"Oh, uh." Stiles raised the box slightly like the elder male hadn't already seen it. "This is yours apparently. It was just dumped on the kitchen table. Figured I'd come bring it to you."

An eyebrow raised on its own at that. Clearly the kid had issues if he thought going to the bedroom of the guy that had slammed him into a wall the night before was a good idea. He wondered why no one had stopped him, why Scott hadn't held him back or Melissa talked him out of it.

Unless there was some sorta ulterior motive behind it.

His ears searched the other rooms of the house, hearing Melissa and Maria talking in the kitchen, the water running as someone did dishes. A toilet flushed in another room, Scott most likely doing his business. Meaning Stiles had been left alone and ignored and had decided all on his own to go to Derek's room under the pretense of giving him a box of his things.

Definitely an idiot.

"Right," the Alpha stated flatly. "And you brought it. Now leave."

"Uh, actually," Stiles began, stepping over to dump the box on the bed. Derek tried not to think about how close he was to the mattress, about how easy it would be to just shove the box off and push the Omega down onto it, to climb on top and cover that lean frame with his broader one, with his scent. The gray tee and khaki shorts he wore were no match for an Alpha's claws and it would be the work of seconds to get him naked and moaning, that scent stronger and with that spice note he'd inhaled the night before. Derek had fleeting thoughts about how the younger male would taste on his tongue, about what kind of underwear he'd be ripping off in order to get to his cock, his ass, his hole. He'd bury his nose where the Omega's scent was strongest, lap at his dick, suck at the head, before drifting down and eating him out, drinking in the essence of him as his body got him ready to be fucked.

A faint noise reached Derek's ears and it took him a moment to realize it was the sound of Stiles' breath catching in his throat. Eyes flipping to the Omega, he registered how his cheeks were redder, lids halfway down now golden eyes, lips parted and jaw dropped. His breathing was heavier, body trembling, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And his scent had kicked up a notch, stronger, with that spice note Derek had detected the night before when he had the smaller male pinned to the wall.

Fuck. Shit just got more complicated.

Clearly Derek had failed in his mission to try not to think about having the other male in his bed rather than next to it and his x-rated side-trip hadn't remained in just his mind. Judging by the red and orange tint to everything, his thoughts had leaked out, his dick twitching with interest inside his jeans, his claws digging into his tee, his wolf howling out a demand to go ahead and do everything he'd been thinking about doing. And it wasn't just his physicality that would give everything away, it would be his scent, too. Chances were his own held that same spicy note of arousal and even if Stiles himself couldn't tell exactly what it was, his wolf would. His Omega instincts would tell him that an aroused Alpha was in the vicinity and that his body needed to ready itself for penetration, to give whatever the Alpha wanted without hesitation.

And as much as Derek wanted that, he also didn't want it at all.

Swallowing hard, he fought to keep in control, to rein back his wolf and his instincts and everything inside of him that was screaming to just grab Stiles as he had before and follow through on what he'd started the night before.

"You need to leave," he ordered, voice a harsh growl that shoved its way past his fangs in a barely understandable rumble.

Stiles' mouth did an impression of a goldfish, lips moving up and down, up and down, up and down, no words coming out. He shook his head rapidly, attempting to snap himself out of it, before awkwardly smoothing his hand over the back of his head. "I was hoping we could talk," he requested, voice rougher than usual, gesturing to the elder male with his hand before shoving both in his pockets.

Derek snorted, rolling his eyes, fighting off the instinct to give the Omega anything and everything he asked. His wolf was clawing to get out once again, demanding the human-half of him just shut up and let Stiles talk, let him talk forever about anything and everything, if that's what he wanted.

But the human half knew better, knew that letting the younger male talk would not only go against his plan to not get to know him, but also would result in Stiles believing that Derek wasn't such a bad guy and would forgive past transgressions. And with him forgiving what the Alpha had done, it meant the Omega would no longer be so wary—if he was even that way in the first place—of being around him and would be a constant presence in his life. It was _exactly_ what Derek was hoping to avoid.

"I have nothing to say to you," he replied, tone flat.

"Okay, that's cool, but I—"

"_You_," Derek interrupted. "Are gonna leave and not come back."

Stiles' brow furrowed in confusion, hand slipping out his pocket to point at the other male. "But—"

"Your stench is already all over my mattress," Derek cut in once more, coming up with an excuse that was both understandable and believable. "Now it's gonna be on my shit. I don't need you hanging around getting your Omega stink all over everything else. It's already hard enough to breathe in here without that shit."

The smaller male's mouth shut, the gold leaking from his eyes, head turning away as he struggled to keep eye contact. His jaw was working, lips twisting in various directions, fingers clenching into fists inside his shorts. Derek had obviously hit a nerve, had hurt the Omega's feelings given the way his scent turned salty.

Something inside the Alpha twisted, a knife slicing into his gut, a wrenching in his heart. His wolf hunkered down, ears back, head on its paws, whimpers leaving it. It clearly felt like shit, hated to see the Omega in pain of any description, especially when the human-half of Derek was to blame. He felt the urge to go over, to wrap Stiles up in his arms and hold him close, to insist he didn't mean it, that he was sorry, that he would do anything to make it better.

But he didn't do it.

Because Stiles being hurt was _exactly_ what he wanted. Because no one would wanna be around the person who was a dick to them and upset them. Because deep down, Derek really _was_ a dick.

And for the first time since his dad's death, he felt like absolute shit and regretted his actions.

Stiles nodded repeatedly, pressing his lips into a hard line, resolution setting into his features as his body hardened. "Right," he muttered, screwing his face up briefly before flattening his expression. "Well, guess that, uh. Nothing really much to say to that."

Derek kept his own poker face up, digging his claws further into his shirt to prevent his hands from reaching out and pulling the younger male close and holding him tight until he was forgiven again. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder, playing nonchalance, acting like he hadn't a care in the world about what he'd said and how it'd been taken.

When in all actuality, part of him deep down had broken.

But it was easily ignored. For the time being anyway.

The Omega swallowed hard, licked his lips, nodded some more. Without another word, he turned on a sneaker-clad foot and quickly made his way downstairs, shutting the attic door behind himself.

Derek didn't move for another long moment, ears listening out for the sounds of Stiles shuffling into Scott's room, false cheer in his voice as he greeted his friend and pretended like everything was okay and no, he wasn't lying, did he want Scott to set up the wifi or not? Satisfied that his own lie had been bought, Derek forced his body to relax, exhaling slow and long. It wasn't until he pulled his hands from his sides and dropped his arms that he realized there was blood on claws, that his sides were bleeding, that he'd hurt himself physically after hurting Stiles emotionally.

Standing in the middle of his room, staring at the red under his nails and barely feeling the sting of the slices he'd inflicted upon himself, Derek knew he was more fucked than he originally thought.


	5. Past

_**A/N: **Sorry about the delay between chapters but parts of this fought me and then life... Urgh. Life._

_Once again I apologize if my Spanish is wrong and please feel free to correct anything that needs correcting. I took French in high school sooo... *shrugs *_

_Not sure if I have anything else to say. I'm kinda emotionally preparing myself for the end of "Being Human" tonight and then seeing "Captain America: The Winter Soldier" tomorrow. Basically, I'm in for some feels hell... Enjoy the chapter and lemme know whatcha think :)_

* * *

Derek didn't move for a minute or two. And when he finally did, the motions were mechanical, body on auto-pilot, a strange sort of numbness settling over him that he didn't look at too closely.

He picked his iPod up from where he'd dropped it on his bed, shoving the white buds in his ears and blasting Avenged Sevenfold's new album to block out the noises coming from the rest of the house. The box Stiles had brought up was still sitting on his mattress and he glared at it before finally stalking his way over to it. He touched it as little as possible as he carried it over to the far side of his half of the room, depositing it on the other side of the bureau without bothering to check its contents. A spur of the moment decision later and his box of books was placed on top. He'd worry about what to do with them later.

Flopping onto his back, he picked up his book and began reading it where he'd left off, barely registering what was written. His mind kept drifting to the conversation he'd just had with Stiles, the way he'd barked out insults and growled until the Omega left. It was total douchebag Alpha behavior, an over the top way to display strength and ranking and territory. And, okay, Derek could admit that maybe he'd been a tiny bit too harsh with what he said to Stiles. But the world was full of assholes and the sooner the kid realized that, the better.

His wolf-half didn't seem to agree with that statement, remaining on its belly, head still on its paws, whining pitifully. Derek knew it wanted him to go downstairs, to check on Stiles, to make sure he was okay and there were no hard feelings, but he refused. He was sick and fucking tired of his body making the decisions for him and he was gonna stand his fucking ground on this. For once, he was refusing to let the choice be taken from him.

He didn't get to choose whether or not his dad died.

He didn't get to choose whether or not he moved to California.

He sure as fuck _could_ choose whether he let some little Omega prick and his fucking _scent_ affect his life and control his other decisions.

His wolf snorted. Derek ignored it.

Derek finally managed to shut his mind off, allowing him to get lost in his book and forget about the fact that the world existed and that there were people in it. There were no Alphas, no Omegas, no dead parents, no infuriating—and intoxicating—scents, just fictional characters and their own fictional problems. It was exactly the way he wanted it to be.

* * *

The scents of dinner dragged Derek back to reality, the usual blend of spices that always accompanied Maria's cooking. His stomach grumbled, clearly pissed that it'd been ignored since lunch, and demanding he fix the emptiness it was currently suffering.

He shoved his bookmark in to hold his place, flipping the paperback shut before placing it on his bed. The iPod soon joined it before he rose to his feet, stretching out muscles that had been tightened by laying in the same position for so long. A quick crack of the neck, a roll of the shoulders, and he scuffed his way towards the stairs and down them.

He headed down the hallway, pausing outside Scott's room and focusing his hearing for any sounds inside. It was only when he noticed a distinct lack of heartbeats that he realized what exactly he was doing: he was checking on Stiles.

And Scott, he mentally added.

Although he wasn't sure _why_ he added that. Or why he'd wanna check on either of them.

All right, if he was being honest with himself, he knew why he was trying to listen out for Stiles. Lucky for him, he was completely okay with lying.

Forcing his legs back into motion, he continued on his way along the hall, ears picking up the sounds of conversation in the kitchen. Two female voices, two heartbeats, no teenage boys in the house.

The words Maria and Melissa were speaking became clearer as he paced down the steps, the scent of dinner soon being joined by those of aggravation and frustration. Derek paused at the bottom of the stairs, debating if he wanted to bother continuing on his way to the kitchen, if he wanted to subject himself to whatever disagreement was happening between the two of them. He wasn't all that fond of conversation in the first place; a heated one where he was forced to endure feeling awkward and out of place wasn't any higher on his list of things he enjoyed. Seemed like it would just be better to turn right around and head back to the attic before he was caught wavering and made to go into the kitchen anyway.

His stomach grumbled again, telling him that no, retreating to the attic wasn't an option.

Shit.

He smeared a hand over his face, whiskers scratching his palm, Maria's words hitting his ears and snapping him to attention.

"All I'm saying, _mija_," she began then paused, stirring something in a pan. "Is that his behavior isn't normal."

An exacerbated sigh left Melissa in response and Derek could practically picture her with her eyes rolled to the sky, lips pressed together in a harsh line as she struggled not to tell her mom exactly how she was feeling, knowing it would just make the situation worse. It happened way too often.

"I can't see how you can put up with all that anger and aggression," Maria continued, most likely oblivious to her daughter's reaction. Or uncaring. Or both. "He's just like his father in that aspect. Don't know how you put up with that from him either. Or him at all, really."

Derek felt his fingers curl up into fists, his muscles tighten as they got ready to pounce. Knowing that it was his abuela who had said that shit stopped him, held him in place, prevented him from ripping into the person who'd insulted his father, his pack leader, his Alpha.

There were certain things in werewolf culture that one just didn't do. That was one of them.

"You can't help who your soul mate is, Mom," Melissa countered, voice even, reasonable, the sounds of ceramic against wood joining her as she set the table. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

The elder female scoffed, banging some sort of utensil against the edge of the pan before setting it aside. "Back in high school, it wanted John. Not entirely sure what happened to its common sense after you graduated, but it clearly knew what was best for you back then."

Derek barely heard the sigh Melissa let out at that statement, the sound drowned out by his boots thudding against the carpet as he stopped his way into the kitchen. He could feel the tiny pinpricks of claws digging into his palms, felt his teeth tingle as they elongated into fangs. His dad wasn't around anymore, but he still felt offended on the elder McHale's behalf, still felt angered at the insinuation of Andrew's mate being with someone else.

And yeah, reasonably, Derek was aware that his parents weren't each others first love, that they'd dated other people before meeting at college, and that was perfectly fine, perfectly normal. But his wolf was having trouble reconciling the fact that someone else had touched his Alpha's mate, that yet another person thought she should be with him rather than his dad. Melissa Delgado had been fated to be with Andrew McHale and that was that. It was just a fact and the sooner Maria realized this, the better.

And if he had to help her come to this conclusion, then so be it.

"Who the hell is John?" he demanded to know as he entered the kitchen, a slight growl to his words.

Two heads snapped to him, Maria standing by the stove with a spatula in hand, Melissa by the table laying down a plate. Both had their eyebrows raised in surprise, both staring at him wide-eyed, both shocked at his sudden appearance and the heat behind his words.

His green eyes switched back and forth between the two of them, eyebrow cocked as he impatiently awaited an answer.

Maria looked at her daughter, lips pursed and eyebrows bobbing in a full "told you so" manner, before turning back to the stove, back to the other two occupants in the kitchen. Derek snapped his head over to Melissa, folding his arms over his chest, raising his second eyebrow in expectation.

She put the plate down properly, wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans, tucked some of her curly hair behind an ear, procrastinated. Hands on her lower back, she looked the picture of casualness and ease, face betraying nothing as she spoke.

"My high school sweetheart," she finally answered, her heartbeat as steady as her voice. "We broke up after graduation because I was headed to NYU and he was joining the army and off to basic training. It just didn't make sense for us to stay together so we didn't. Then I met your dad and none of that seemed to matter." A small wistful smile formed on her face at the last part, her eyes a mix of sadness at the loss of her husband and joy that she'd had two decades of marriage with him.

Maria scoffed again, tapping the edge of the frying pan with her spatula. "I still say you should've stuck it out with John, instead of getting mixed up with _wolves_," she spat the last word as she moved the pan off the hot ring, twisting the knob and turning the heat off.

Derek growled at the insinuation that there was anything wrong with werewolves, hating the discriminatory tone she used with the word. Seemed as though there was nothing about him that she approved of: his attitude, his sexuality, his _species_.

So much for grandmothers being loving and doting and spoiling their grandkids with hand-knitted sweaters, homemade cookies, and way too many cheek pinches.

His name was spoken as a warning, his eyes flipping over to view Melissa's chastising expression. "Why don't you have your dinner in your room?" she proposed in a tone that was less than friendly, eyebrows raised in a wordless order for him to just go along with whatever she said and god fucking help him if he disagreed.

Not that he'd go against a suggestion to be alone. Must've been a habit of hers left over from when he'd still given a fuck about things.

He cut the growls off, not bothering to retract his fangs or claws, eyes narrowed in a glare at Maria. She was completely stoic, unbothered, not seeming to care that she'd just pissed off her grandson. Her grandson who had the ability to tear her throat out with one swipe of his hand.

Brave. Or dumb.

Knowing Maria Delgado, Derek would go with the first.

Melissa picked up the plate she had placed at Derek's usual seat, walking over to the stove and putting food on it. Derek busied himself by grabbing his cutlery and a drink, taking the full plate when it was offered to him.

Only she didn't let go.

"You're still doing the dishes tonight," she stated in a voice that brokered no argument.

He nodded once, showing he understood, wishing she'd just let him go already.

"And I'm gonna need your help running some errands tomorrow."

Another nod and she finally released his plate, allowing him to leave.

Maria made a noise of disapproval, a small snort of sorts, when he reached the stairs. Melissa sighed once again, her hair swishing as she ran a hand through it.

"He's grieving," she defended her son, tone harsh. "It's just a phase."

Another scoff. "He's a werewolf, _querida_. Anger and aggression isn't a phase; it's a way of life. Especially for an Alpha."

Derek nearly lost his footing as he stepped onto the second floor landing, stunned that she was completely understanding. Not to mention correct. In time, her daughter would see how right she was.

* * *

He woke up at 3:30 AM this time, not bothering with the pretense of trying to get back to sleep. Instead, he got out of bed, threw on a pair of basketball shorts and a wifebeater, slipped his feet into his sneakers and headed downstairs. He remembered to grab a bottle of water this time, not as desperate to get out the house as he had been the day before, quietly shutting the front door behind himself.

He ran the same circuitous route as he previously had, making sure to keep on pace the entire time and not get distracted by the house next door. He'd been affected by that Omega's scent enough; he didn't need it fucking with his run, too.

Two hours later, and Derek was back inside. He chugged another bottle of water then headed upstairs to shower, remembering to grab a change of clothes before going to the bathroom. By six am, he was clean, dressed, and laying on his back on his bed, waiting. He willed himself to go back to sleep, instead finding himself thinking of his friends back home. It would be ten in New York. Chances were most of them had completed their own run hours ago. Some would've gone back to bed, others would've stayed up, gotten a start on their day. A couple had summer jobs that they'd probably be heading off to. Others would laze about by the pool or head to the park to practice. He'd be with the latter group, dragging Scott along with him in order to make the younger McHale be more social, make him a better player.

New York felt like a whole other world, a different life that he barely remembered having. Part of him really missed it, missed his friends, the loose interpretation of a pack that he had. He wished he'd taken more advantage of the time he'd had left with them over the summer, had taken them up on offers to hang, practice, party.

Then again, maybe he didn't wish that.

Still, California was something entirely different, a whole new environment he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to become comfortable with.

That thought made him realize the full moon was only a couple weeks away and he was gonna have to find a place to shift and run. He hadn't seen Maria's basement, but he highly doubted it was equipped to deal with a confined wolf that wanted nothing more than to run and chase and howl. New York wasn't known for its forestry, but the wooded area his dad took him to was perfect, familiar, a place he felt completely at ease in, something that helped make his communion with his wolf all the more better. A content wolf-half led to a content human-half.

Not that he'd know what that was like anymore. Apparently every decision he made lately pissed his wolf off.

Derek ended up drifting off to sleep, waking up to the sounds of shuffling underneath his floor. He listened to the sounds of still sleepy people moving about their rooms as they got ready for their days, not bothering to move until the noises had drifted down to the main floor, everyone gathering in the kitchen for breakfast. He waited another ten minutes before going to join them, his stomach once again dictating his actions.

Breakfast was silent and awkward, the tension so thick Derek could feel it as well as smell it. Maria and Melissa were apparently still not seeing eye to eye, still agitated after their disagreement the night before. Derek was still pissed at the elder female over her derogatory comments regarding werewolves, as well as her remarks that her daughter would've been better off married to someone else other than his father, not to mention was still in his anti-social "phase".

Scott was the only one not aggravated by anyone—at the moment anyway—and worked to relieve the tension by blathering on about his plans for the day, going with Stiles to meet the Omega's friends and teammates and playing some lacrosse in the park before heading out to dinner. Derek briefly marveled at the role reversal, at how, a couple months ago, it would've been him rambling on about his busy social schedule of practice with these guys, hanging with those dudes, meeting up with Kate somewhere for some group date activity he was being dragged to. Cheerleaders and their constant pep could get on anyone's nerves, even the most outgoing of people. More than once he found himself wondering how Kate made the team, given her proclivity to be more snarky and rude than cheery and smiley.

Then again, she probably threatened her way onto the team, made captain through sheer intimidation alone. That, plus she filled out the costume damn well.

Breakfast over, Derek cleared the table and washed the dishes before heading back to his room. He shoved his feet into his boots, gathered his cell, wallet, and keys, then made his way back downstairs. A minute or so later, Melissa joined him in the living room, giving instructions about boxes that needed to be loaded into the back of the station wagon, explaining how they were all old things from their attic back in New York—as well as unnecessary items such as dishware and pots and pans that weren't needed at that moment but could be in the future—and they had to be stored somewhere else.

Derek fulfilled the task, carrying the heavier of the boxes, loading the beater of a car up. His Camaro and Melissa's sedan had arrived the previous evening, hers now parked on the driveway alongside her mom's, his by the edge of the lawn, but the large amount of boxes that needed to be taken could only be transported in a vehicle with a large amount of space.

Like the station wagon.

Melissa drove, Derek silent in the passenger seat, the radio playing a Spanish language station on one of the AM frequencies that Maria kept it on. He knew better than to mess with the stations, a lesson learned when he was a kid and touching the dials resulted in an ear pinching. It hurt a lot more than it sounded, especially to a werewolf who had extra sensitive ones.

Their destination was a self-storage facility near the outskirts of town. Melissa punched in the code to open the front gate, heading straight for the second row of buildings and stopping halfway down. Engine killed, she got out, Derek doing the same, and stepped over to the large unit she'd parked in front of. Padlock undone, she hefted up the door, revealing a half-filled room.

Derek stepped inside the temperature controlled unit, knuckles idly knocking against the metal wall as his mind entertained the possibility of renting one out for shifting. Then again, it was probably a terrible idea. His wolf hated being locked up anywhere, especially on a full moon. He'd end up tearing the place apart and ripping his way through the metal door. It would cost more to pay for damages than to rent it in the first place.

Melissa called for his attention and he set to work, lugging in boxes from the car and setting them where instructed. His eyes roamed over the unit's contents as he did so, seeing other boxes of various sizes and shapes, pieces of furniture, parts of a bed and a baby crib, a bassinet, baby gates and play pens. He found a box labeled "_Melissa Baby Stuff_" next to the items, following instructions to place ones labeled "_Derek Baby Stuff_" and "_Scott Baby Stuff_" beside them. He spotted others with her name on it: childhood toys, old books she'd probably forgotten about, high school projects and college papers, clothing from when she was younger.

It wasn't until the last box had been moved from the station wagon into the unit that he spotted one with "_Andrew_" written on the side.

In Maria's handwriting.

He cocked an eyebrow at that, staring at the name, chest feeling tight. He'd never really thought about where his dad's old stuff had ended up, if his parents had kept childhood mementos or trashed them when they'd stopped talking to their eldest child. It was hard for him to really think about what his dad had even been like before he was born, before he was with his mom, something he'd been confronted with the night before when her old high school boyfriend's name had come up. But they'd had eighteen years apart from each other, eighteen years of growing up and aging and developing, eighteen years of existence and memories and life. Surely there'd be things commemorating Andrew McHale's early life, even if it was his first pair of shoes dipped in gold, his first photo at the hospital, an old yearbook.

Derek's feet moved before he was conscious of sending the command, soon finding himself standing in front of the box as it sat on top of a stack that held Melissa's baby clothes and toys. It was a strange juxtaposition, the items that were at the beginning of one mate's life right next to the items of the mate who'd died.

A strange tingle broke out over his skin, the tightness in his chest constricting more, making it hard to breathe much less feel anything. It was the hospital all over again, the numbness that had come with being told his dad had been killed, the feeling of being far away from everything as he heard what happened, as he saw a claw tear through the tape holding the box closed.

Dust flew as he parted the flaps, tickling his nose. He scrunched it up against the sensation, sniffed, focused on what he was doing. Not that he was even aware that he was doing it. It was like he was watching someone else's hands move, like one of those first person shooter video games. The hands were visible, the end of the gun, and it looked just like he imagined it would be if he held the AK himself.

Only he'd never held a gun, and at that moment, he wasn't even holding a controller. He just... _was_.

Retracting his claw, he reached inside the box, fingers coming in contract with a smooth, tough material. He pulled it out, black leather unfolding, reforming into a jacket. Holding it close to his nose, he inhaled deeply, scenting the coat. Beneath the must and the cardboard and the leather itself, was the distinct scent of his dad, that earthy, spicy, woodsy smell that could only be defined as Andrew McHale.

Fuck.

Derek's brow furrowed as he stared down at the jacket in his hands, swallowing hard against a lump in his throat. It wasn't until that moment that he realized he missed his dad's scent, a million memories coming rolling back like a tidal wave, drowning him in the past. Cuddling up to his dad as he told bedtime stories to his boys. Riding in the car on the way to the woods to turn. Congratulatory hugs after a game well played. Being carried on his dad's back as they hiked as a family, both boys worn out from a long day. His hair being ruffed, an arm around his neck as he was pulled close after a run.

He let the scent wash over him, calming his wolf, setting his human side at ease. The smell of his Alpha brought peace, meant safety. His dad always protected his family, always made sure they were safe and secure and that nothing could or would ever happen to them.

None of them had ever even considered the possibility of something terrible happening to the one person who made it his life to make sure it never occurred to anyone else.

A small hand rested between his shoulder blades, a head appearing out the corner of his eye. Melissa tucked a loose chunk of hair behind her ear, the strands having fallen out of her ponytail, her own dark eyes fixated on the jacket in Derek's hand. A small laugh left her on a breath, corner of her lips twisted up in a wan smile, fingers reaching out to gingerly feel along the collar of the coat.

"It was your dad's," she said softly, quietly, snorting at herself. "Of course you knew that. Probably still smells like him, huh?"

Derek didn't answer, didn't look at her, just rubbed his thumbs on the shoulders of the jacket as he held it tightly.

"Your abuela hated this thing," Melissa continued, unperturbed by her son's lack of response, probably used to it at that point. "Your dad wore it when he first met her, which didn't seem like that big a deal to me since he wore the thing everywhere. She wasn't too thrilled about it, made him take it off then she hid it somewhere. I thought she trashed it to be honest 'cause neither of us saw it again." A nostalgic grin formed on her face, before her lips twisted to the side. "She never really approved of the rebellious, leather-clad werewolf I brought home, said right to his face that he shouldn't get too attached to me because I was just going through a phase."

Derek snorted at that, partially because he knew it wasn't the truth. Maria probably wouldn't have—and still didn't—understood what a mate was to a werewolf, how it was for life, more so than any human marriage. Those could always end in divorce—and half of them did—but with werewolves, it truly was until death do they part. Losing a mate was the same as losing a limb and wasn't something one took lightly. Even Derek understood that feeling, that attachment, that _need_, understood how it was just as much instinct as it was emotions, and that finding a mate and completing the ceremony wasn't something that was as easily dismissed as wedding vows.

If the stories he'd heard growing up were true, then his dad probably knew his mom was his mate when they first met, if not shortly thereafter. And while it wouldn't have been the same for Melissa, in time she would've grown to love him and wanna be there for him. For Andrew, meeting her mom was a huge step, was the same as being introduced to one's pack, and it would've only come after he knew for a fact that they would end up mated—and then eventually married, given his mate's human instincts, traditions, and desires.

But the snort was at more than just the disbelief that someone wouldn't understand how his parents were literally fated to be together. It was also at Maria's complete inability to get that certain things weren't phases, that it was a true part of them and was for life. She knew that Alphas were more aggressive, had a habit of leaning more towards the anger end of the emotional spectrum, but couldn't accept that mates weren't a passing fancy, that his bisexuality wasn't just a curious itch he wanted to scratch. It grated on his nerves, ruffled his wolf's fur the wrong way, and more than once, he'd wanted to grab her and growl until she finally got it and accepted it and moved on without any more snarky comments, eye rolls, or disapproving Spanish epithets.

Still staring at the jacket he held, Derek replied in a low voice, practically muttering under his breath. "I can relate."

The hand between his shoulder blades rubbed across them in a soothing manner, the smile on Melissa's face changing to a more sympathetic one. "I'm sorry about what your abuela said last night."

He shrugged, playing it off. He knew she was referring to what the elder female had said about him, something that honestly hadn't bothered him all that much. He'd been more pissed off at the slights against his father and the insinuation that his mom would've been better off with someone else. "It's fine," he stated honestly. "Kinda accepted that she won't ever like me."

A few months ago, the admission would've hurt, would've stung. He wasn't exactly clamoring for her approval, but it would've been nice to know that she would've been happy with his choices in life—not that his sexuality was a choice, but he would've liked to be able to introduce a boyfriend and not get an eyeroll and some snark in response. But now, he just didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about anything, especially not when it came to himself. Knowing Maria didn't approve of him being bi or like how he was behaving lately just didn't affect him like it would have before his dad's death.

Melissa cupped his chin, jerking his head around so he was forced to meet her eyes. He took in the grave look on her face, the seriousness in her dark orbs, the determined set of her lips and jaw. She clearly wasn't fucking around with whatever it was she was about to say.

"Your abuela _loves_ you," she stated firmly, ignoring the snort she got in response. "She's from a small village in Mexico where things are different, not to mention is from a generation where werewolves were still looked down upon and being gay was a psychological disease, not a natural instinct. It's harder for her to accept things after having been told so often during her developmental years that those things were wrong. But she does love you, even if she doesn't completely understand you."

Derek didn't say anything, features flat as he just stared at her. He honestly didn't care about any excuses or explanations, about why certain people were the way they were. If anything, Maria's blatant disapproval of him made it easier to just write her off and no longer care about any sorta relationship and anything happening to it.

Melissa let out a sigh, releasing her son's head and the jacket he still held, stepping back. "Why don't you take the jacket?" she suggested, knowing the topic of her mom was done, that Derek wasn't gonna comment or argue or keep that conversation going in any way. "Your dad would've wanted you to have it."

He felt that familiar tightness in his chest once more, eyes flipping back to the leather coat. Part of him hesitated for a brief moment, knowing it wasn't his property, his jacket, but her words hit him somewhere deep inside. His dad would've wanted him to have it. His dad hadn't worn it in years. His dad couldn't wear it anymore.

Mind made up, he put the jacket on, feeling the cool leather against his arms as he slid them in the sleeves, pulling the front together to double-check the zipper would reach. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his arms, crossed and uncrossed the limbs, all to check there was enough room in the jacket for movement.

Perfect fit.

The sad smile returned to Melissa's face as she watched him, one arm folded over her chest, the other holding her hand in front of her lips as her eyes got watery. Derek couldn't stand to see the look on her face so he switched his gaze to the jacket, checking zips and pockets and clasps, busying himself.

"Looks good," she commented, voice rough before she cleared her throat. "Really goes with the stubble you need to shave."

Derek _did_ look at her then, an eyebrow raised in a "you can't be fucking serious" expression. She simply breathed out a chuckle, her grin growing to something more genuine and amused.

"C'mon," she started, motioning to the open door with her head. "We still have a couple more stops to make. I'll let you drive."

He nodded, slipping the jacket off and carrying it in his hand as he left the self-storage unit with her. As he stepped outside, he cast one last glance at the box with his dad's name on it, wondering what other memories were stored inside and if he really did wanna find out what they were.

* * *

Their second stop was the high school, Derek dragged inside to sit bored as Melissa signed both he and Scott up and made sure all their paperwork and transcripts had made their way across the country with the move. It had taken longer than it should've, most of the workers in a rush to finalize things before school started in a few days. Someone asked Derek if he was excited, his eyes rolling on their own accord. The guidance counselor asked if he was signing back up for basketball and lacrosse and he stood up, telling Melissa he'd wait in the car for her. She didn't argue or disagree, even when she finally joined him twenty minutes later, only letting him know that he needed to stop by the guidance office first thing Monday morning in order to pick up his schedule. He nodded once before starting the car, mind solely focused on the fact that it was a hundred-eighty school days before he graduated and could leave.

Stop number three was lunch, Melissa treating Derek to In-N-Out Burger, telling him that he and Scott missed out on them by growing up on the east coast. He didn't bother correcting her on the fact that both McHale sons had eaten there during summer vacations to Maria's, instead just grunting and putting a few more fries in his mouth. A burger was a burger, not to mention they were all overcooked no matter where they were bought. He figured it was the wolf in him that preferred things rare and as close to still bleeding as possible.

Maria called on the way to stop number three, requesting Melissa pick up four steaks and some potatoes for dinner. The younger female repeatedly asked why they were needed, the elder evading it by mentioning items already on the grocery list before lying about needing to run and hanging up. Melissa sighed from the passenger seat and rubbed her forehead, muttering to herself in Spanish, a habit that was apparently hereditary.

Derek briefly contemplated needing to watch out for signs of doing just that in himself before shoving the thought aside and focusing on the road.

Grocery shopping took nearly an hour and a half, something Melissa attributed to a combination of the excessive amount of food they needed to buy—"Because feeding two teenage boys isn't bad enough, it's two teenage _werewolf_ boys"—and being unfamiliar with the layout of the store. Derek was just glad to get more protein in the house with the full moon looming so near. The shift always took a lot outta him, his body breaking apart and rearranging into something else, and it needed a lot to recover. Protein and carbs helped keep him going, helped his muscles repair themselves and his body to continue with its basic functions. And while carbs weren't scarce in Maria's kitchen, it could've used more of the other stuff. A couple tubs of protein powder, some energy bars, Gatorade, and oatmeal would definitely do the job and he couldn't contain the slight upturn of his lips at the fact that Melissa just put the items in the cart without him needing to ask as he pushed it along behind her.

Then again, after two decades of buying it, she probably didn't need the reminder. It was more habit than anything really.

But still, he couldn't help but feel a little touched, especially when he realized that with his dad gone and Scott still not having reached full maturity, he was the only one using it. And she was buying it just for him.

Unloading the groceries took time, Scott still out with his friends, Melissa only able to carry so much, Maria even less. The elder female stayed in the kitchen, putting things away, pointing it out to Melissa when needed, using Derek's height to store things on higher shelves.

The steaks were snatched from his hands before he got a chance to put them in the fridge, brow drawn as he stared after Maria's retreating back. He exchanged a curious look with Melissa, who shrugged before turning to the elder Delgado.

"Uh, Mom? Who're the steaks for?"

"Dinner," she replied easily, pulling a chopping board out from a lower cabinet then sliding open a drawer.

Derek rolled his eyes, thinking the answer she'd given was obvious and completely inappropriate for the question that had been posed. Melissa just sighed before returning to her previous task, deciding she'd find out eventually and that there was no way to talk to her mom when she wasn't willing to give a straight answer.

Evasion, thy name is Maria Delgado.

Once the groceries were put away, Maria delegated tasks. Derek was sent on a search for the nice tablecloth that was apparently only ever used for special occasions—at least according to Melissa's questioning commentary once the task had been assigned—and told to put out the good dishware and cutlery. Curiosity and mistrust was a thick scent in the air and he knew his own emotions were adding to it, but he still went along with what he was told.

Melissa was told to handle the baked potatoes and steamed vegetables while Maria cooked the steaks. She scoffed after asking how Derek wanted his and got "bleeding" as a response, muttering in Spanish about werewolves and their disgusting eating habits, wrapping it up with a "_loco lobito_".

He stifled a growl at the insinuation that he was still a pup, taking a deep calming breath. His day had been pretty decent. No need to fuck it up for no real reason.

Dinner was almost ready when the doorbell chimed, Derek's head snapping up from where he'd been putting white candles in the candelabra—another task he'd raised an eyebrow at, the suspicion scent in the air growing—that sat in the center of the round table. He turned his head to look at the back of Maria's, awaiting the inevitable instruction of going to see who it was.

Only that didn't happen.

_"Mija,_ get the door, would you?"

Both eyebrows raised at that, his head then turning to Melissa's, noting a similar expression of surprise as she stood by a different counter, arm still reaching up to grab the wine glasses she'd been told to fetch. Her mouth goldfished a few times before she kept it closed and left the room, on her way to the front door.

Derek returned his gaze to the remaining female in the kitchen, eyebrow raised as he watched her move a steak from the pan onto a plate. He wasn't expecting an explanation from her, not really, but it would've been nice if his expectations hadn't been met for once.

At least in that case.

His own job complete, he lightly stepped over to where Melissa had previous been standing, ears focused outside the kitchen. He heard the sound of the door opening, the gasp she let out, the surprised way she breathed out a simple name.

"John?"

Oh. Fuck. No.

Derek slowly and purposely moved as he took down the wine glasses she hadn't gotten yet, still listening in on the people by the front door. He heard the soft "Hi, Melissa", the "Wow! You look great", the "so do you", the hug. Clearly it was the John that had been mentioned the night before, Melissa's old high school boyfriend, the one her mom had wanted her to marry instead of Derek's dad. And there was no way it was a coincidence that he was ringing their doorbell the very next day, especially not after Maria's request for steaks, a nice table setting, and wine.

She was trying to get them back together.

With extra care, Derek placed a fourth glass down before grabbing the edge of the counter, breathing slowly and deeply. He really should've seen it coming. There was no way he could go an entire twenty-four hours with shit being okay, no way he could have a decent day like that. Shit was bound to go wrong at some point, something was bound to happen that would rankle his nerves and light his short fuse.

At least it wasn't Stiles this time, he absently thought.

Flexing his fingers, he double-checked that his claws hadn't slid out without him noticing, that he hadn't scratched up yet another piece of furniture. Blunt human fingernails stared up at him, a small hint of relief hitting him, but doing nothing to ease the tension in his muscles.

He was in for another fun dinner, he just knew it.

Footsteps sounded out as they made their way into the kitchen, Maria finally turning from the stove and letting out an overly cheery greeting before walking to the new arrival. Derek ignored them, keeping his head down as he set the glasses at the table, focusing more on perfect placement that he honestly didn't care about. He just didn't want to be a part of their conversation.

"Derek?"

So of course he was dragged into it.

He raised his head at Melissa's voice, walked around the table at her expression, stopping in front of the stranger with his arms folded over his chest. Derek had a good inch or two of height on him, but they appeared to have the same wide build. His eyes were a bright blue, wrinkles around them, age and stress evident in wrinkles and graying brown hair. He was dressed in a beat up pair of jeans and burgundy Henley, the outfit far too casual for the level of fancy Maria was shooting for with this dinner. And his scent was...

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

"Derek, this is Sheriff John Stilinski," his mom introduced, smile evident in her voice, lips turned up at the corners in a small grin.

Of. Fucking. Course.

It would've been too much to ask that her old boyfriend be just some random guy named John. But no, it had to be the county's sheriff, had to be their next door neighbor, had to be the father of Scott's best friend and an Omega Derek was trying so hard to pretend didn't exist. Every inhale brought John's scent into his brain, his olfactory sense tearing it apart, analyzing it, desperate to find that special note that belonged to Stiles and spoke of blood relations.

And he found it, deep beneath gun cleaner, Old Spice, dry cleaner chemicals, and whiskey. Deep beneath the flavors that made up John's own unique scent, the musk that made him a man, the warmth that spoke of "father", the spice that said he was still virile and available, the salty taste of loss and grief over a deceased mate.

He hated that that last note had also made its way into Melissa's own scent, a permanent reminder of what had been taken from them.

A friendly smile formed on John's face, a slight unease making the edges of it twitch, his scent wary. It was perfectly natural, even after decades of werewolves being "out", for humans to have that reaction when confronted with one of the supernatural creatures. It was a deeply embedded reaction, an instinct that screamed that the person before them was a predator and a danger and they should get the fuck out _now_.

But with John, that caution was also met with bravery, an air of authority that Derek was sure came with a gold star badge, a khaki uniform, and a black pistol. He figured the guy had arrested plenty werewolves, had probably handled feral ones, dangerous ones during full moons. The sheriff—despite being human—was the ultimate ruler of his territory and even the biggest, toughest Alpha would go along with his commands.

The gun he carried with him, despite being out of uniform, most likely had something to do with that. Bullets wouldn't kill a werewolf—unless it pierced the heart and the wolf bled out before it could be removed—but they still hurt like a bitch.

At least that's what Derek had been told anyway. He wasn't about to find out first hand though.

John extended his right hand towards the werewolf, friendly smile still in place, scent and heartbeat both saying he was calm and relaxed. "Nice to meet you, Derek."

The Alpha stared him down through narrowed eyes, red flashing in them in warning, before shaking the other man's hand. His grip was strong, skin rough, signs that he wasn't a weakling and that he could take care of his own. Derek had to respect him for that, but still kept his guard up, still made sure the sheriff knew that he was now in the Alpha's territory, despite being the legal authority of the area.

The hard stare remained as they parted hands, Maria instructing everyone to sit down before serving them. John complimented the food, how good it smelled, how Stiles wouldn't let him eat red meat anymore. Derek snorted, eyes rolling at the thought of such a powerful figurehead being bossed around by a little Omega. Melissa glared at him in warning, but he ignored it, choosing to glare at the man seated across from him. If he was weak enough to let his son dictate his diet, he deserved to be laughed at.

Dinner passed by awkwardly, tension growing in the air. Derek knew he was to blame for the curt way he spoke to the sheriff, but couldn't bring himself to care. He was in Derek's territory; the Alpha would treat him however he wanted to.

Conversations started out with John talking about his time in the Army, how he left after his contract was up because his wife had gotten pregnant and he wanted to be there for his family. Derek questioned how going from one life-threatening job to another was "being there", voice hard and accusatory, glare permanently attached to his face.

That had ended that topic.

Talk then shifted to Scott and Stiles and what a coincidence it was that their sons managed to become friends on the internet then move in next door to each other. A growl rumbled up from Derek's chest at the mention of the Omega's name—although he didn't really know why—effectively putting an end to that subject, too.

Things devolved into small talk, comments on the weather, how it was supposed to rain the next day, how the winter wouldn't be as harsh or unforgiving in Beacon Hills as it had been in New York. Derek insisted that season were a thing and should actually exist, unlike how things seemed to be in California. John smiled and commented that he'd get used to it and grow to like the fact that he wouldn't have to bundle up as much and battle the snow and cold just to get a car. The Alpha had allowed his eyes to turn red and his fangs to lengthen before simply stating "werewolf".

The kick to his shin courtesy of Melissa barely registered, but he still put the eyes and fangs away.

The final straw had been when John asked Melissa how she was adjusting to life in California, placing his hand over her's at her lie of being okay, informing her that if there was anything she ever needed, to just ask him.

"You could leave."

Derek ignored the wide-eyed stares of the two women at the table, keeping his reddened glare fixated on the other man, arms folded over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. Melissa huffed out a sigh, eyes flipping to the ceiling in a quick prayer before turning to John, rearranging her features to an image of friendliness and "please don't judge me for my asshole son".

"You don't have to," she insisted, kicking Derek's shin again.

"Yes, he does."

She turned and glared at him, jaw tensed and jaw gritted as she argued. "No. He doesn't."

Derek opened his mouth to debate, but was cut off by the sheriff butting in.

"It's okay. I really should get going," he commented, false grin on his face. "I've got the early shift down at the station tomorrow."

Melissa goldfished again, struggling to come up with an argument to get him to stay, giving up when he rose to his feet. She did the same, chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'll walk you to the door."

John's smile became more genuine, friendlier, before turning to Maria. "Thanks for dinner," he stated, turning to the werewolf across from him. "Derek," he acknowledged with a nod of the head. Turning, he left the kitchen.

Melissa ordered her son to clear the table, glaring at him as if to dare him to pull anymore shit, following their guest out the room.

Derek rolled his eyes, grabbing his and Melissa's plates before carrying them to the sink. Without meaning to, his ears picked up the sounds of her and John's footsteps as they walked to the front door, two heartbeats with paces faster than usual.

"I'm sorry for his behavior," she stated, the steps stopping as they paused by the door. "He's having a hard time here lately. He and his dad were really close and—"

"It's okay," John interrupted softly, honestly. "Stiles was the same way after Claudia's death. Maybe it's a werewolf thing? I—" He paused, sighed, fabric rustling as he shook his head. "I don't know. I just know that it's hard for kids to adjust to a new family dynamic."

Melissa let out a small huff of a laugh, following it up with a sarcastic "no kidding" as Derek dumped potato skins into the trash, quietly stepping over to grab the other plates.

"But I meant what I said," he insisted, tone still friendly and caring. "If there's every anything you need—" He let the sentence trail off, knowing the sentiment had been heard and understood.

"I know. Thanks, John."

Derek heard the sound of fabric rustling, skin sliding together, the sounds of a hug, and he flipped the water on as high as it could go. He was done listening, done with the sheriff and his flirtations cleverly disguised as being a good neighbor and friend. The werewolf had caught the scent of attraction from the human, knew what it smelled like when someone wanted to be with someone else, had heard those skips in heartbeats in friends around their crushes or romantic partners. It was way too fucking much to hear and smell it being directed at Melissa, knowing it was coming from someone who wasn't his dad.

Sink filled, Derek focused on the task of washing up, ignoring the footsteps that entered the kitchen, ignoring the bitter scent of aggravation rolling off Melissa as she stopped beside him.

"Would it kill you to be polite?" she spat, arms folded over her chest, hip sticking out as she leveled her hard gaze up at him.

He returned it with a glare of his own, soapy hands holding a half-washed plate over the sink. "Would it kill _you_ to have an _actual family_ dinner like you keep insisting we have?" he snarled in return, his own jaw clenched. "I'm not the only one screwing with the _family dynamic_." He spoke the last two words in a mocking fashion before turning back to the sink, narrowed eyes staring at the plate he was washing.

Hurt joined her scent, her teeth grinding, but she didn't say a word. Instead,she sighed loud and long, her entire body heaving with the action. Turning on a heel, she shuffled her way out the room with heavy feet, leaving Derek alone with the dishes.

And the tiniest pang of regret at his behavior. Would it really be so bad for his mom to be happy? His dad wasn't coming back, so it only made sense that she might wanna start dating eventually. And, okay, it might've been a little soon, but it wasn't like she and John were actually _dating_. It had been an old friend offering a shoulder to lean on and a sympathetic ear to talk to. And the guy had actually been pretty decent, had put up with Derek's bullshit during dinner and hadn't been intimidated by the Alpha staring him down. Him hanging around, being with Melissa, putting a smile back on her face, it didn't seem like _too_ bad of a thing.

Until Derek remembered the guy's scent and the underlying note that belonged to his family line that came with it.

Fuck.


End file.
